Thanksgiving, Winchester Style
by bhoney
Summary: or, The Importance of Pie—A series of glimpses into Thanksgivings the Winchesters have experienced, pre-series through season 4. Each chapter is a one-shot for a different holiday. Wee!chester, teen!chester, and current ages. Lots of brotherly moments.
1. 1978: Dean’s First Thanksgiving

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1978: Dean's First Thanksgiving_

Mary Winchester looked up from setting the table for Thanksgiving dinner when she heard the front door open. She made a few small adjustments to the candles, fussed with the placemats, and stepped back, smiling at her handiwork. The good china was out and looked beautiful against the autumn colors of the linen tablecloth. The brightly-colored leaves, acorns, and baby squash were perfectly placed on the table runner in the center of the table, flanked on either end by candles in her mother's heavy silver candlestick holders. The good silver gleamed from its place next to the plates. All that was missing was the food.

She felt strong arms slide around her ever-expanding waistline and smiled as she leaned back against her husband. "Hey, you got here right in time. I was just finishing up."

John's voice was a low rumble near her ear. "It looks great, but shouldn't you be sitting down? Doc said you needed to stay off your feet."

Mary's voice was pure exasperated affection. "I'm pregnant, John, not disabled."

"I know," he rubbed his cheek against her soft blond hair, and pressed a kiss to her temple, knowing how that weakened her defenses. "But you're _seven months_ pregnant, Mary. And with as tired as you've been lately…"

"I know, I know," she grumbled, not used to being inactive and not liking it much. "That's why I agreed not to spend the whole day on my feet, making Thanksgiving dinner. I'm being good." She stepped away and eased herself down onto the chair John pulled out for her. "Of course, I probably wouldn't _be_ so tired if I wasn't as big as a house," she finished sardonically.

John paused from where he was helping her elevate her feet on an extra chair he'd pulled over and looked over at her petite frame, belly rounded with the child she carried. _His_ child. His _son_. He felt his chest grow tight just looking at her, and when his voice came out, it was a little choked but fervently sincere, "I've never seen you look more beautiful."

Mary blushed prettily, ducking her head, and allowed him to adjust a small pillow behind her to take the pressure off her lower back before she changed the subject. "Speaking of dinner, John, where is it?" she looked around. "Did you leave it out in the car?"

There was a moment of silence, and John stilled behind her. She could almost picture him rubbing the back of his neck and shifting from one foot to the other. "Uh…not exactly?"

She sighed. There was definite guilt in his tone. "You forgot to pick it up, didn't you?"

He tried to cover, really he did; coming around to face her, expression the picture of innocence. "Course not, Mary, my love. I would _never_ forget Thanksgiving dinner." He even flashed his dimples, hoping she would buy what he was selling.

"Don't you 'Mary, my love' me, John Winchester," she scolded. "You forgot to pick it up, didn't you? Even after I called and reminded you earlier?"

He sighed, busted. "I'm sorry, I just got distracted with the car I was working on and…look, I'll run out right now, okay?" He glanced at his watch and grimaced. The diner was closing early today so the owner could head home and get ready for company. By his calculations, he had exactly…twelve minutes to get there. He'd be cutting it close. "Does Edna know what we want?"

Mary nodded, eyes telling him she wasn't really mad. "I called earlier and talked to her. She was going to go ahead and get it all packed up so it was ready for you. Just in case you were running late," she cocked a brow, her grin impish. "But I forgot to ask for rolls. See if she has any of those homemade rolls she makes."

John nodded. "Will do." He turned to go, but her voice called him back.

"Oh, and pie! You can't forget the pie, John. I've been craving pie _all day_."

John was a typical first-time father, especially attentive and always willing to run out and get whatever random thing Mary happened to be craving. He treated it with the importance of a military mission, and this was no exception.

"Right, pie. What kind sounds good?"

"I don't know…pumpkin, maybe? Or, apple." Mary cocked her head to one side as she gave it some serious thought. "Ooh, pecan sounds good, too. Or, what about sweet potato? I could really—"

"Never mind," John laughed and held up a hand to stop her. "I should know better than to ask a pregnant woman to choose just one kind of pie," he teased.

"Hey, I'm eating for two here, you know." She did her best to look offended, but in truth she felt like she was eating for four. This kid had a _massive_ appetite. It was like feeding a tapeworm.

"I know you are." John's face softened, filling with love as he bent down to brush her tummy gently. "We have a lot to be thankful for, Mary." He still couldn't get over how much. Was it even possible for one man to be so lucky?

"Yeah, we do." She rested her smaller hand on his, where it pressed against her belly, and felt the kick that was strong enough to vibrate through both of their hands. She grinned up at him. "I think your son's trying to tell you something," she laughed.

"Guess so. Boy needs his pie," John smiled, eyes twinkling, and gave her a kiss before standing. "I'm on it. I'll do some recon and see what Edna at the diner's got cooked up." He gave a little salute in parting and pulled on his leather jacket as he walked out the door.

Mary could hear the rumbling purr of the Impala as he started it up and pulled away. She sighed, hoping he wouldn't be long. She'd just had a snack, but she was hungry again already.

****************************************************************************

Sure enough, John made it back in record time—due mainly to the fact that Edna had been practically waiting at the door for him with his order—and they set the table with the bounty he'd picked up. There was turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade stuffing, sweet potato casserole with marshmallows on top, fresh green beans, Edna's special rolls, corn on the cob, cranberry sauce, and a couple of other things besides. It all looked delicious.

Mary laughed out loud as she began to unpack the last bag of diner fare. "What's all this?"

"Pie." John's smile was smug; he was very pleased with himself.

"John, there have to be three—no, four—pies here." The laughter was still in her voice as Mary looked up from counting. Her blue eyes sparkled with amused affection.

John just shrugged, dimples deepening. "You can never have too much pie, Mary. Besides, we've got a growing boy to feed."

Mary just rolled her eyes at this, still chuckling. John Winchester never did anything halfway; that was for sure. It was just one of the many things she loved about him.

And when later that night, after dinner was over, his petite wife managed to scarf down a piece from _each_ of the four different kinds of pie, John just beamed proudly and leaned over to rub her swollen belly in approval. "That's my boy!"


	2. 1982: Sam’s First Thanksgiving

_This part is dedicated to SupernaturalGeek for her advice, encouragement, virtual hand-holding, and infinite patience with my angsting. And to Nana56, whose incredibly kind gesture of support bolstered my spirits more than she knows._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1982: Sam's First Thanksgiving_

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the Winchester family was at the grocery store competing with other customers to get the last-minute ingredients needed for tomorrow's big meal. It had been a long morning, but they only had one or two items still to get before they could head home, and thankfully, John had been able to take the day off work to help out. Mary loved Thanksgiving, but she got tired a lot more easily now that she was pregnant, especially when she already had a _very_ energetic three-year-old to keep up with. Not to mention she was already as big at only four months along as she had been at seven months along with Dean. She swore she was getting ready to give birth to Bigfoot.

Mary smiled, thinking of the day before when three-year-old Dean had overheard her telling John that this baby was going to be a giant. His little forehead had wrinkled with concern. "Not bigger 'n me though, Mommy. Cuz I'm da big brover. Wight?" He'd seemed so anxious that she'd tried hard not to laugh as she ruffled his hair. It was hard, because he was so cute, and she loved the little boy sweetness of him.

But she'd just smiled at him and reassured, "Of course not, sweetie. You'll probably always be bigger than Sammy, because you're so much older than him. So you'll have to be very gentle with him when we bring him home, and help me look after him, okay?"

"'Kay, Mommy. I c'n he'p w' baby Sammy." He'd looked so sincere that Mary felt her heart melt with love for him. Dean would be a wonderful big brother. He'd been asking for a little brother ever since he learned to talk, and she was excited to see the boys interact. She knew they'd bicker and compete and play jokes and generally torment each other as they got older, like all siblings do, but she had a feeling they'd have a special bond. She was broken out of her reverie by John calling her name from across the aisle.

"Mary, apple or pumpkin?" John asked, gesturing toward the meager display of pies left for dessert.

"I don't know, John. I was thinking about trying something different this year. Maybe apple?"

Mary felt a tug on her long maternity shirt and looked down to see Dean's green eyes looking up at her reproachfully. "Baby Sammy wikes _pun'kin _pie, Mommy."

"Oh he _does_, does he?" Mary's lips twitched up a little at the corners. "And how do you know _that_?" Her tone was teasing as she looked down at her little one, his sandy blond hair tousled and big eyes earnest.

"He _told_ me, Mommy," the toddler proclaimed, the image of innocence.

"Oh, really?" Mary was amused at this, but tried not to laugh outright. She didn't want to hurt Dean's feelings, and he looked so serious.

"Reawy, Mommy," he assured her solemnly. The little boy leaned into her big belly to speak into it, as he had taken to doing ever since she and John had first told him his little brother was in there. "Sammy, you wike pun'kin pie, dontcha?"

Mary felt a definite little flutter as the baby inside her moved, but whether it was from hearing Dean's voice or an actual love of pumpkin pie was anyone's guess. Still, it was the first time she'd felt the baby move so strongly, so… "Okay, John, pumpkin pie it is," she announced.

Dean directed a blinding smile at her tummy and patted it gently, whispering, "G'd boy, Sammy. You're gonna be da bestest wittle brover _ever_."


	3. 1983: Mike and Kate’s

_Thanks to everyone who's been so encouraging, not just of this story, but of my writing in general. It means more than I can say._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1983: Mike and Kate's_

Dean was quiet. Too quiet. It wasn't his natural state, and John missed his chatter with a vengeance that tightened his gut and made his throat burn. Looking around Mike and Kate's table, filled to overflowing with Thanksgiving fare—as if the abundance of food would somehow make up for the lack of holiday spirit—John wanted to break something. He wanted to yell, wanted to cry, wanted to be _anywhere_ but there, trying to choke down turkey and memories too sweet to forget but too bitter to swallow.

Kate had pushed for the holiday celebration, arguing that the boys needed this bit of normalcy, and John had reluctantly agreed, though he'd have much preferred to ignore the day entirely—or barring that, put the boys to bed early and seek out whatever oblivion he could find.

He could see now that it had been a mistake to give in. Sammy was fussy, as he was more often than not these days. He missed Mary, and there wasn't a thing John could do about it. So he just tucked the arm holding him a little closer, one hand gently bouncing the baby, while he moved the food around his plate with the other.

And Dean…Dean was breaking his heart. He didn't make a noise other than soft shushing sounds to Sammy to soothe him, offering his brother what little comfort he could. He sat as close to John as his chair would allow, pressing himself into John's side as if trying to melt into him. As if trying to find sanctuary in a world newly hostile.

Far from his normal gusto when he ate, Dean merely picked at his food—and even that was mainly because John had been reduced to pleading with him to please, _please_ eat _something—_for him. He was worried that he would lose Dean too if he didn't start eating. And perhaps most telling of all, Dean refused to eat his pie, looking at it as if the very _idea_ of pie made his stomach hurt.

Sitting there, pie like ash in his own mouth, John couldn't blame him for not wanting to eat. _Everything_ tasted of ashes now, no matter how good the food. It was as if the fire had stripped him of all of his senses, as well as the other half of his soul.

All he could taste was ash, and all he could smell was smoke. The scent seemed to linger over their much-too-small family now, like a cloud of ill fortune. It didn't seem to matter that they'd bought all new clothes—they'd had to, little was salvageable from the fire—the smell of smoke still seemed to follow them. Smoke…and something far darker.

John would swear he could smell it all the time now, no matter where they went, no matter how many times he washed their clothes or bathed the boys. Smoke, like grief, seemed to have seeped into their pores and no amount of scrubbing could get it out.

Sometimes John thought he could weep from how much he missed the little-boy scent of Dean, or the sweet powdery baby-scent of Sammy, or the lightly floral fragrance of Mary's perfume. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could smell now was smoke.

And all he could see now was darkness, everywhere darkness, except when he closed his eyes and saw too-bright flames.

They didn't even seem to talk anymore, not any of them, the silence brittle and crackling with all the things they weren't saying, all the questions they didn't have answers to. _Why'd Mommy have to go away? Why did this happen to us? Could we have saved her somehow? _Death had stolen all the words from their mouths and though Dean was the only one who'd stopped speaking, he wasn't the only one who had nothing left to say.

The only thing that seemed left to them was touch. So John gripped Sammy a little more firmly in his arms, and let Dean lean on him as much as he wanted. That much he could do. It was all the comfort he had to offer.

Watching his boys that dark Thanksgiving night, John silently vowed that he would find the truth about what took their mother, his wife, away from them. He'd get the answers to all their questions. If it took forever, meant going to the ends of the earth, that's what he'd do. _Whatever_ it took. That was the promise he made to himself, to Mary, to his boys. And John Winchester _never_ broke a promise. Especially one to his family.


	4. 1990: Tom the Turkey

_Happy Birthday, Sis! This one's for you._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1990: Tom the Turkey_

Sammy was _completely_ obsessed with Thanksgiving. All week long he'd come home from school stuffed to the brim with trivia about pilgrims and turkeys, and questions about why _they_ never celebrated Thanksgiving like other families, and listing endlessly for Dean all the food _other_ kids in his class said _they_ were going to have for Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey trivia alone was enough to make Dean's head hurt.

Dean had broached the subject with his dad a few days earlier, suggesting that maybe they should do something for Thanksgiving this year, for Sammy's sake. But John had been distracted preparing for his latest hunt, and had just muttered that they'd talk about it when he got back. Dean sighed, remembering it. Didn't his dad see how important this holiday was to Sammy?

At any rate, it was finally the end of the last day of school before Thanksgiving break and Dean couldn't _wait_ to get home. Four whole days off—it was going to be awesome! Course, knowing his geek-boy brother, he'd probably actually _miss_ going to class. Dean rolled his eyes at that thought and adjusted his backpack impatiently, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for Sammy to get out of school. He sighed and hoped the kid would hurry; it was getting colder and they still had to walk all the way home.

When Sam came out of the brown brick building a few minutes later, he made a beeline right for his older brother, almost tripping in his excitement.

"Dean! Look what I made in art class!" Sam proudly held out his turkey sculpture. Its body consisted of an upside-down brown flower pot with a red button and a red-checked bowtie attached to it. It had a round brown Styrofoam head, complete with a yellow beak, red wattle, and wiggle eyes. A small fan of multi-colored feathers was glued to its back and it had small painted-on feet.

"A turkey, huh?" Dean grinned as he took it from Sam and examined it carefully from every angle before handing it back. "That's great, squirt! I like the feathers." The brothers started the walk home, Dean shortening his stride so Sam could easily keep up.

"Yeah. It's 'upposed to be a cen'erpiece for the table tomorrow when we have Thanksgivin' dinner," Sam happily confirmed. "D'ya think Dad'll like it? Huh, Dean? Do ya?"

"Uh, well…" Dean rubbed the back of his neck, cringing a little at the thought of bursting his kid brother's bubble of holiday-induced happiness. "About that...I uh…I got somethin' to tell ya, Sammy."

Sam looked over at his brother a little apprehensively, his steps slowing unconsciously. Dean continued, avoiding Sam's eyes, "Dad—Dad isn't going to make it back for Thanksgiving. He called this morning before we left for school." Dean's voice was apologetic, as if it was somehow _his_ fault their dad wasn't going to be there for the holiday.

He'd been dreading telling Sammy all day, and truth be told, he'd been pretty disappointed himself when his dad had called with the news. Not that Thanksgiving was a big deal or anything. Who even cared about stupid Thanksgiving? He just wished his dad would take a day off every now and then. Ya know, for Sammy's sake. Didn't he know Sammy needed him?

"Oh." Sam's face fell a little and he slumped, disappointed. It made him sad that his dad wouldn't be there for the holiday, or get to see his turkey. At the same time, he was used to their dad not being around much, so he didn't let it keep him down long. _Dean_ would be there, and as long as him 'n Dean were together—_that_ would be a good Thanksgiving. Sam nodded to himself, mind made up. "But _we_ can still have Thanksgivin' dinner, right Dean? And use my turkey? An' have stuffin' and mashed a'tatoes and cranberry sauce and pie an'—"

Sam stopped walking, realizing Dean wasn't beside him anymore. He turned around and Dean was looking at him with such a pained expression that Sam felt his stomach fall. He sniffled, feeling tears come to his eyes. "Dean, we are gonna have Thanksgivin', right?" His voice was small, his hazel eyes pleading. "Dean?"

Dean winced and looked away, but found his gaze couldn't stay off his little brother for long. Seeing Sammy's chin start to wobble, determination came into his eyes. "Course, Sammy." He leaned over and ruffled his little brother's too-long hair, flashing him a forced grin. "Course we are. Can't let that great centerpiece go to waste, can we?" Sammy's answering gap-toothed smile was sunny. "We just need to stop by the grocery store on the way home and pick up a few things. 'Kay?"

"'Kay, Dean," Sam chirped happily and bounced off ahead.

Dean surreptitiously pulled out his wallet. The money Dad had left was almost gone but maybe, just maybe, they'd have enough.

************************************************************

In the end, they had just enough for some deli turkey slices, a box of instant mashed potatoes and one of stovetop stuffing mix, and a can of cranberry sauce that looked more like jelly than anything else. But when Dean counted up how much they'd spent, he knew they'd have to put back the pumpkin pie they'd picked out.

Dean looked wistfully at it. Pie was the best part of Thanksgiving, if you asked him. But that one pie cost almost as much as all the other items combined, and it was important to Sammy to have a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. So Dean sighed and put it back on the shelf.

Sam was disappointed when he found out, but tried not to let it show. "S'okay, Dean. That pie's probably no good anyway. Least we got the other stuff." He shifted his turkey to one hand, slipping the other small gloved hand into Dean's, hoping to make his big brother feel better. He knew how much Dean loved pie and it made him sad to think Dean wouldn't get any this Thanksgiving.

Dean wracked his brain all the way home, trying to figure out a way to get them a pumpkin pie. After all, it wasn't _really_ a traditional Thanksgiving dinner without pie, was it? Besides, he'd seen how disappointed Sammy was that they had to put the pie back. He just had to figure something out. There had to be _some_ way…and maybe there was. It wouldn't be easy. Or pleasant. But…it just might work.

When they finally got back to their apartment, Dean had Sammy stand outside with the stuff while he checked the place out to make sure it was secure, just like Dad had taught him. Then they put away the few groceries for the next day and Dean fixed mac and cheese for their dinner. When they were done eating, Dean helped Sam with his homework. Once that was out of the way and Sam was settled in with a good book, Dean grabbed his jacket and decided now was as good a time as any to put his plan in motion. "Stay put, Sammy. Somethin' I gotta do. Be back in a few."

Sam just nodded distractedly as he flipped a page in the book he was reading. "'Kay, Dean."

When Dean came back a half hour later he was grinning, clearly very pleased with himself, but he refused to tell Sam why or where he'd been, no matter how many times he asked.

************************************************************

The next morning, Dean got up extra early and let himself out of the apartment, making sure to lock up behind him. He'd left a note for Sammy, but knew he'd be back before the kid even woke up. Sammy'd had a hard time getting to sleep the night before with all his excitement over Thanksgiving, so Dean planned to let him sleep late today to make up for it. Besides, he wasn't going far.

When Sam woke up, rubbing his eyes sleepily, the first thing he noticed was that their apartment smelled _wonderful_. He padded into the kitchen to find Dean at the old green stove, mixing something in a pan.

"Whatcha doin' Dean? Making Thanksgivin' dinner?"

"Yep." Dean grinned affectionately at his little brother's sleep-tousled appearance.

"Smells good," Sam sniffed appreciatively. "C'n I help?"

"Almost done, Sammy. You can set the table though. Don't forget your turkey."

"'Kay, Dean." Sam's voice was excited. A _real_ Thanksgiving dinner. He couldn't wait!

Sam went about his assigned task with gusto. His first step was to get out the silverware. He was careful to pick the best of what they had, no bent forks or spoons today. It was _Thanksgiving_. Then he grabbed a couple of paper napkins and put one near each of their chairs, placing the silverware he'd chosen on top. He knew that's how it was supposed to go—their teacher had shown them pictures of Thanksgiving dinner, and they always had the silverware on top of the napkins.

Next he took the two mismatched plastic cups Dean had set out on the counter and filled them with water from the faucet. He held his breath as he carried them over to the table and sighed gustily in relief when he sat them down without any spills.

Then he picked up the cracked melamine plates Dean had put their sandwiches on, and carried those over to the table, arranging them with the other items that were there. Once he had everything in place, Sam looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. "Kay, Dean, just gotta go get Tom."

"Tom?" Dean quirked an eyebrow in question.

"My turkey. For the table," Sam said matter-of-factly, not hearing Dean's soft snort of amusement. "Be right back." He skipped from the room and came back a minute later, carefully carrying Tom, who he proudly situated in the center of the table while Dean brought over the bowls of hot food and dipped out a little from each onto both of their plates.

Sam settled himself in his chair and adjusted his slightly-too-small Scooby Doo pajamas from where they'd twisted up on him. He'd thought about changing into regular clothes, but this seemed better—he didn't usually get to eat dinner while still in his _pajamas_. How awesome was that?!

He studied the table, trying to memorize just what his first real Thanksgiving dinner looked like. It was _perfect_, right down to the scarred round wooden table and the chair he sat in that wobbled when he leaned over because one leg was shorter than the rest. None of that mattered to him at all; it was just like he'd imagined it.

Dean saw his scrutiny and figured Sammy was disappointed at their meager dinner. "Sorry, Sammy. Probably doesn't look like what your friends were talking about," Dean gestured at the table. Each boy's plate held a turkey sandwich, a small pile of mashed potatoes, some stuffing, and a round slice of cranberry sauce from a can.

"No, it's good, Dean!" Sam hurried to assure him. "Really. It's…a _Winchester_ Thanksgiving." Sam looked up at him then, eyes shining softly as if Dean had just hung the moon for him. "It's the best Thanksgiving _ever_." He sounded awed and completely sincere, and Dean could've kicked himself for not thinking to do this Thanksgiving thing sooner.

Instead, he smiled at his little brother and ruffled his hair. "Well make sure you eat up, squirt, or you won't get any dessert," he said with mock severity.

"Dessert?" Sam's eyes grew wide. "But Dean…"

Dean got up and pulled something from the fridge. When Sam saw what it was, his face lit up like it was Christmas morning. "A pun'kin pie, Dean? With _real_ whipped cream?"

"Yep," Dean's grin was smug as he sat it down on the table and took his seat across from Sam. His little brother's reaction told him that everything he'd gone through to get the pie had been worth it.

"But how'd ya…we couldn't 'fford it, you said." Sam looked completely dazzled by this turn of events.

"Well, Sammy, I used a little of the Winchester charm and got ol' Ms. Bleeker next door to give it to me. It's _homemade_, dude," he finished proudly.

"Wow." Sam's voice was reverent, and he looked at his older brother with something akin to hero worship. Then his nose scrunched up as he thought about it. "How'd ya do that though, Dean? Ms. Bleeker's not very nice."

"Told ya, Sammy. Used my charm." Dean smirked, as if that should be obvious.

"Yeah, right," Sam snorted, knowing there was more to the story. Charm didn't seem to work very well on Ms. Bleeker, as they'd found out only too well earlier that fall when one of her flowerpots'd had an unfortunate encounter with Sam's soccer ball.

"Okay, okay—maybe I also helped her carry everything down to her car so she could leave for her Thanksgiving trip out of town," Dean reluctantly admitted.

Sam just raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest.

A minute passed. "And I agreed to water her plants until she comes back."

Sam continued to wait, knowing there was more.

Finally, Dean sighed, capitulating, "_And_ told her I'd feed her dumb cats while she's gone."

And there it was. "But Dean—you _hate_ those cats. They make you _sneeze_ and they're _mean._ They always try to scratch you." Sam looked at his brother, expression worried.

Dean just shrugged and grinned that lopsided grin of his. "Can't have Thanksgiving without pie, Sammy."

Sam nodded, but determined _he'd_ be the one to give the cats their food. They always were nice to _him_. And they didn't make him sneeze, even a little. That settled, he dug into his Thanksgiving dinner, the first he could ever remember having. And it tasted _great_.


	5. 1994: Pastor Jim’s

_Thank you to everyone who's left a review for this story. If I haven't responded personally to you yet, I promise I will. We had a family emergency this week, and I've fallen a bit behind on my replies._

_A belated Merry Christmas to everyone! I hope you all had a blessed holiday, celebrating the One who came to bring us hope._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1994: Pastor Jim's_

"Aw, Sam…" Dean's voice was a whine that belied his fifteen years.

"C'mon, Dean. It won't be that bad," Sam cajoled, feeling like he was the older brother for once. But Pastor Jim had given him a mission, and if it was the last thing he ever did, Sam was going to get Dean to come next door with them. Of course, knowing Dean, it might just _be_ the last thing Sam ever did.

When it became apparent that whining wasn't going to work, Dean switched to his firm, authoritative, I'm-your-big-brother-and-what-I-say-goes voice. "I do _not_ want to spend Thanksgiving with a bunch of blue hairs, Sam."

Sam just snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's not just going to be old ladies there, Dean. You heard Pastor Jim—there's gonna be families, other kids. Everyone in the church's gonna be there, not just little old ladies," he patiently explained.

"Yeah well, I like Pastor Jim and all, but why's he gotta host a church potluck on Thanksgiving? Why can't he just have Thanksgiving like a normal person?" Dean groused.

Sam just raised an eyebrow at this, his silent _Like us? _echoing louder than words.

Dean sighed in concession to the unspoken challenge. "Fine. So we're not exactly Joe Normal and family either, but c'mon, dude. You can't tell me you actually _want_ to go to this thing." His brows raised expectantly, as if Sam's agreement was a foregone conclusion.

Sam just shrugged. "I don't know. It might be nice. And it's the least we can do, Dean. Pastor Jim _did_ say we could stay with him while Dad's gone."

"Yeah, and _that's_ another thing—" Dean jabbed the air with his finger, as if counting up all the ways their situation was totally whacked. "Why couldn't we stay by ourselves? We've done it before plenty of times when Dad's been gone on a hunt." Dean's tone was pure belligerence as he paced back and forth in the small back bedroom he and Sam shared while at the parsonage.

And that, Sam knew, was the real issue. Dean was taking this whole thing _very_ personally, like it was a slam on his ability to do his job, to take care of Sam. That left Sam in the odd position of defending their dad's decision, something that in all his eleven years he couldn't remember ever having to do before. Usually it was _Dean_ justifying Dad's actions to _him_. Sam wasn't sure how comfortable he was with the whole role-reversal thing.

But, remembering how it felt to be on the other side of this argument, he kept his voice soft when he replied. "You know why, Dean. Cuz whatever Dad's hunting this time goes after families. Dad was afraid it'd go after us to stop him hunting it."

Dean bristled at this reminder, as if Sam had just rubbed salt into a gaping wound, and turned such a ferocious glare on Sam that he had to work to stop himself from backing up a step. "So what if it did! I'm not a friggin' _kid,_ Sam. I'm _fifteen_ years old!" He growled this as if Sam was the one he was trying to convince, though they both knew it was really someone else Dean was arguing with. "I've been helping Dad on hunts for _years,_ and taking care of _you_ for longer than that. He should _know_ I wouldn't let anything happen to you." Dean ran a hand through his spiky hair in frustration, energy and adrenaline pulsing off him in erratic waves.

He wanted to punch something. He couldn't help it—this just felt too much like that time he'd screwed up and nearly let the shtriga kill Sammy. They'd been shuttled off to Pastor Jim's that time, too. But he'd been careful since then, hyper-vigilant, had proved to his dad over and over again that he could be trusted to keep Sammy _safe._ Nothing was going to get to Sammy again, not on his watch. He'd really thought he'd proven that to his dad by now. And then _this_ happened.

Unaware of the dark memories and recriminations swirling through Dean's mind, Sam just nodded. "I know, Dean." His voice was solemn, his eleven-year-old gaze completely trusting, confident in his big brother's ability to keep the monsters away. Dean protecting him was as much a fact of life as needing to breathe, or the stars coming out at night. "You'd never let anything bad happen to me."

There was such complete and simple faith in the statement, that Dean felt most of his frustration melt away at its touch, like ice when hit by the sun. He wasn't sure he deserved such unequivocal faith, but he allowed it to soothe the places inside where he felt raw and bloody. Anyway, it wasn't right to take his anger out on Sam, who was just trying to cheer him up.

Dean sighed and responded, quieter now, hard edge gone from his voice, leaving what almost sounded like longing. "I just wish _Dad_ was as sure as you are, Sammy."

And Sam heard the hurt beneath that statement, though Dean had hidden it carefully, even from himself. "He knows too, Dean. He knows you always take care of me."

"Yeah?" Dean sounded glum. "Then why'd he dump us off here with a _babysitter_, if he trusts me so much?"

"Maybe he was worried about something happening to _you_, Dean." Sam's hazel eyes were large and earnest as he tried to get through to his big brother. "You get reckless when it comes to protecting me, you _know_ you do. Dad just doesn't want anything to happen to you." He swallowed hard, then continued in a near-whisper, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Neither of us do."

Dean just blinked at this, clearly caught off guard and not entirely comfortable with the idea of his family worrying about him. He rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to think of something to say that would diffuse the awkward moment. At the same time, he couldn't argue with what Sam had just said. He _did_ tend to throw himself into the line of fire when something came after Sammy; always had, always would. That's just what big brothers did.

"Whatever," he grumbled after a moment, but it lacked its former heat. It hadn't even crossed his mind that his dad might be concerned about _him_ as much as about Sammy. It made Dean feel a little better to think that was why his dad had insisted on them staying at Pastor Jim's. Not a lot, mind you—a babysitter was still a babysitter. But a little. Maybe his dad _did_ trust him to keep Sammy safe. He allowed the remaining tension to bleed from his posture, and felt his head swim a little in relief. He hadn't realized he'd been holding himself so tightly.

"Anyway," Sam drew his attention back with a teasing tone as he strove to lighten the mood, bumping his shoulder into his brother's side to draw his attention. "You really should come next door with us, Dean. I think you're overlooking one _very_ important thing about potlucks, man."

"Yeah, and what's that, O Wise One?" Dean shot back, cocking an eyebrow in challenge. He could already feel his spirits lifting at the exchange of banter with his little brother. But seriously—what did Sam think could _possibly_ entice him to go to a _potluck_? With _old ladies_?

Sam's smile turned smug. He knew he had him now. "Those 'blue hairs' you're so eager to avoid? They've got lots of time to bake, Dean. From scratch. _Homemade pie, _dude." Sam paused to let this sink in, and watched with satisfaction as Dean's face started to lose the Cloud of Doom that had hung over it since their dad had dropped them off.

"Ya think?" Dean's expression was so hopeful it made the corners of his brother's lips twitch in amused affection.

But Sam just nodded earnestly. "I _know_. I checked when you sent me in with that last load of folding chairs you carried over for Pastor Jim. There were like, _seven_ _pies_ already over there, and people were still carryin' stuff in. At least three of them were pumpkin, but I saw other kinds, too."

That seemed to do it. "Well whaddya waitin' for, Sammy? We got places to be!" Dean's grin was wide and sunny as he practically sprinted from the room, towing Sam behind him. His baby brother believed in him, it was Thanksgiving, and there was homemade pie. Suddenly he felt in the mood to celebrate.

Sam just sighed in relief as he allowed his older brother to drag him out the door. Pastor Jim had been worried, but it was like Sam had told him. _Never underestimate the power of pie._

_Or of little brothers,_ Sam silently added, smiling to himself.


	6. 1996: All Choked Up

_Happy New Year, everyone! Hope the coming year is a blessed one for each of you! _

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1996: All Choked Up_

At the sound of the motel room door closing, Sam looked up from his spot on the double bed where he was stretched out reading a dog-eared book. Dean walked in, brown paper bag in hand, looking smugly pleased with himself about something.

"Where ya been?" Sam managed to croak as he pushed himself into a sitting position, throwing the partially melted ice bag he'd been using onto the nightstand and tucking his book into the open backpack on the bed next to him.

Dean gave him a worried look, but just shrugged off his jacket and walked over to the chair by Sam's bedside where he'd been keeping watch, bringing the bag with him and settling it carefully nearby. "Throat feelin' any better?"

"Little," Sam rasped, then patiently submitted to his brother leaning over and gently feeling his throat with calloused and competent fingers that took extra care not to hurt.

"Friggin' ghost," Dean grumbled under his breath, eyes dark as they looked at the finger marks still visible on the skin of his little brother's neck.

Sam knew he was referring to the poltergeist they'd gone after the day before. He'd actually been allowed to go along on the hunt with Dad and Dean for a change. They didn't often let him tag along, but it was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn, in and out. However, with the Winchester luck in full force, things had gotten hairy and he'd ended up pinned against the wall in a chokehold, courtesy of one _very_ ticked-off spirit. He'd been on the verge of blacking out by the time Dean had managed to get out from under the table it'd tossed at him and hit Sam's attacker with an iron throwing star he'd aimed with deadly precision. It had dispelled the spirit just long enough for their dad to finish unearthing the bones and torch them—the angry old man had begun to re-materialize just in time to flame out of existence with a shriek of rage.

Dad and Dean had worked together with an efficiency born of long practice to remove signs of their presence and load up their gear, while Sam had been relegated to the backseat of the Impala to rest and recover. They'd run through the customary post-hunt debrief during the drive back to the motel, where injuries were inspected and first aid applied. After a thorough examination, their dad had pronounced Sam in good enough shape not to risk getting Child Protective Services called for taking him into the hospital with hand-shaped bruises on his neck. He'd doled out the usual instructions for what to do while he was gone and promise to call in a couple of days, before grabbing his duffel and heading out to meet up with Joshua for the brief on their next hunt. Sam doubted their father had even remembered that the following day was Thanksgiving; wasn't sure it would have made a difference if he had. He didn't bother to remind him.

After a minute more of gentle prodding, Dean nodded, satisfied, and settled himself back into the seat by Sam's bed, wincing at the protest his own battered body put up at the movement. He jutted his chin in the direction of Sam's throat, "Feels like the swelling's down a little. You eat that chicken soup?"

Sam just rolled his eyes in response. He was _thirteen_ now, a teenager. He didn't need Dean treating him like some little kid. After a moment though, it was clear that Dean wasn't going to tell him anything else, like where he'd taken off to in such a hurry, until Sam answered. So he nodded, sighed, and answered what he knew would be the next question. "Medicine, too."

"Good, that should help with the swelling." Dean looked him over with a critical eye, and seemed content that Sam was doing as well as could be expected. "Since you've been such a good boy, I've got a treat for ya, Sammy." He wiggled his eyebrows at his little brother, hoping to provoke some brotherly banter that might jostle Sam out of his dark mood.

Sam just glared, knowing Dean was trying to get a rise out of him and refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But Dean was nothing if not persistent. "C'mon, Sammy. Dontcha wanna know what it is?" Dean waved the bag in front of him tauntingly. Sam had been moody and mopey all day, and Dean was pretty sure he knew why. He'd thought long and hard and had finally come up with the perfect solution. He could tell his little brother was dying to know what was in the bag, even if he was trying to hide it. Sammy's curiosity _always_ got the best of him if Dean just waited long enough. It was a law of the universe or somethin', like gravity and the Winchesters' perpetual bad luck.

Sam finally lost his patience and made a grab for the bag, but Dean just smirked and held it out of reach. "Now now, Sammy. Didn't anybody ever tell you it's not nice to grab?" Sam just made a face at him, and Dean decided to take it easy on the kid. After all, he _was_ injured. "I got us Thanksgiving dinner, dude. All the fixings. Turkey and gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce—the whole deal." Dean smiled at him in anticipation of his response.

Sam's face lit up. He'd been sure his dad and brother had forgotten all about Thanksgiving. He should've known better. Dean _always_ made a point to remember things that were important to Sam. He wished his dad was there with them, so they could all celebrate the holiday together, but at least his brother had remembered, and that was more than enough for Sam. But then his face fell as he remembered his throat.

Dean watched as the smile on Sam's face faded and his gaze turned mopey once more. Kid looked like he'd just seen his new puppy carted off to the pound. Sam shrugged, trying to hide his disappointment, "S'okay. Not really hungry." His dejected whisper said otherwise.

Dean rolled his eyes. Who'd the kid think he was fooling? "Uh uh, little brother. I went to a lot of trouble to get you the official Thanksgiving dinner I know you've been jonesin' for all day. Cuz that's the kind of awesome big brother I am." He gave a cocky smile that dared Sam to contradict this fundamental truth.

"But, Dean," Sam sounded apologetic as he rubbed his aching throat, "I can't swallow anything. Even the chicken soup hurt." He looked up at Dean with pitiful eyes that tugged on his big brother's heartstrings.

"Not to worry, Sammy, I gotcha covered." Dean reached into the bag and pulled out two large shot glasses that he put on the bedside table. Sam's eyes grew so wide at the sight of them that his brother was hard-pressed not to laugh.

"You got us _booze_?" Sam's voice squeaked on the last word, though he'd swear later it was only because of his injury.

Dean snorted. "Course not, Sammy, who d'ya think I am? You're too young for booze, bro. Don't have enough brain cells yet to start killin' 'em all off." He grinned unrepentantly as he reached over and tousled his younger brother's hair, blithely ignoring the glare thrown his way.

"Then what's this?" Sam nodded toward the bottles his brother began pulling out of the bag and lining up on the nightstand.

"This, Sammy, is Thanksgiving, Winchester style." Dean gestured to the bottles with a flourish, grin wide and very pleased. "Heard some kids at school talking 'bout this stuff. It's soda that's flavored like Thanksgiving dinner. I know—_awesome_, right?" Dean's eyebrows went up as he nodded in excitement. "We've got turkey and gravy," he held up a clear bottle filled with light brown liquid, "stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes with butter, and corn on the cob." He pointed to each one in turn. "And just for you, Sammy, there's even healthy crap like broccoli casserole and brussel sprouts." Dean shuddered at the thought, looking at the two bottles filled with green liquid in disgust. "Ugh, that's just _wrong_." Shaking his head at the things some people were willing to eat, Dean pointed to a bottle filled with peach-colored soda. "Dude, there's even smoked salmon pâté, whatever _that_ is. Sounds girly—I'll leave that for you." This last was tossed off with yet another trademark smirk and a wiggle of the eyebrows.

"But the best part?" Dean reached back into the bag and triumphantly produced two final bottles, which he held almost reverently. His tone was downright gleeful when he spoke and the smile he directed toward Sam could've lit a small city. "For dessert, we've got Pumpkin Pie _and_ Pecan Pie." He held up the orange and brown sodas respectively and gave a sigh of deep satisfaction. "What more could ya ask for, Sammy?"

And looking at the brother who'd saved his life the day before, who'd sat by his side through the night watching over him, and who'd gone to so much trouble to make the holiday special for him, Sam smiled and could honestly reply, "Nothing, Dean. Nothing at all."

************************************************************

_For those who may be wondering, the soda I mentioned is a real thing. A friend gave a set out at a Halloween party as a gag, and I was oddly disappointed not to be the recipient. I became strangely fascinated with the idea and this seemed the perfect place to work it in, though I have taken some artistic liberties with the date of production, as I believe the company only started making it a few years ago.  
_


	7. 1997: The Importance of Pie

_This one's for you, Di'nee. You know why._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1997: The Importance of Pie_

Dean stood watching his dad shift in the hospital bed to try and get comfortable. Though it certainly wasn't the first time in his eighteen years that he'd seen his father in one of the generic hospital gowns—this one patterned with small, light blue diamonds on a white background—he'd never quite gotten used to it. It never ceased to make him feel worried and a little helpless, which in turn made him irritable and abrasive. Well, more so than usual. So, all in all, this was situation normal.

He watched his dad tug on the stiff white sheets that kept getting tangled around his legs, and tried to concentrate on breathing. He focused on relaxing the stomach muscles that had tightened into knots at the sight of his dad lying at the bottom of the concrete steps the spirit had tossed him down—for a teenage girl, she'd packed quite a wallop, and someday it might even be funny that a teeny bopper had taken down the great and invincible John Winchester—and getting his heart to stop trying to claw its way out of his chest. The aftereffects of the adrenalin that had coursed through his body, combined with the sick feeling in his gut at this vivid reminder that John Winchester was merely human after all, had left him feeling dizzy and shaken.

He wanted to help his dad with the sheets; wanted to double-check the stitches the doctor had put into John's head, to make sure they'd cleaned around the suture site thoroughly, though he'd overseen the entire procedure from his spot in the corner of the room. But he knew his dad wouldn't appreciate the hovering. So he stood, awkward and uncomfortable in world he wasn't used to, a world where his dad was disturbingly _breakable._ And it chafed that the most he could do at the moment was to glare suspiciously at everyone who came into the room, while surreptitiously watching the monitors they had John hooked up to. He made sure not to let Sam see him doing it, and every once in a while sent a reassuring smile or nod the younger boy's way. His fourteen-year-old brother was even more freaked than Dean.

Dean still couldn't get over just how quickly it had all gone wrong. One minute they'd been sweeping the darkened corridors of the local high school with EMF meters—he and Sam on one end, their dad on the other—the next John had been tumbling down the main staircase, landing bloody and broken at the bottom before Dean could even get off the iron throwing star he held ready in his hand. He'd quickly dispersed the spirit and raced down the stairs as fast as he could, finally jumping over the banister directly to the ground when his legs couldn't take the stairs as quickly as he'd wanted.

When he'd reached him, John had been unconscious and bleeding from a long gash in his head. Dean had felt the first cold fingers of panic when he'd been unable to get his dad to wake up, and for one soul-shattering moment had been sure he was dead. He hadn't dared take a breath until he'd found a pulse in John's neck. His exam had been quick but thorough, and he'd only distantly registered Sam running down the steps to join him on their dad's other side. In addition to the gash from where he must've hit his head on the edge of a stair on the way down, and which had already begun to create a small pool of viscous red blood on the floor, John also had one arm that was bent at an unnatural angle. Other than that, he'd looked okay. But he still hadn't responded to any of Dean's attempts to wake him up.

Sam's shout had alerted Dean to the fact that the spirit had started to materialize again, so he'd thrown the remaining iron star at her and dived for the duffel of supplies Sam'd brought down the stairs with him. He'd pulled out the container of salt they kept in there, and had quickly poured a thick circle around where Sam was kneeling next to their dad at the bottom of the stairs, making sure to give a wide birth around the pool of blood so it wouldn't dissolve any of their protection.

Then he'd yelled for Sam to put pressure on their dad's head to stop the bleeding, grabbed the iron poker Sam had tossed to him, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and taken off at a dead sprint for the gym at the other end of the school. He wouldn't have long before the spirit re-materialized, and while she couldn't get at Sam and their dad as long as they stayed inside the salt ring, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out where he was heading. Which was too bad really, because by all accounts, she definitely had _not_ been a genius in life.

He'd reached the trophy case outside the gym just in time for her to re-materialize and throw him into it, glass shattering everywhere as he hit. Well, on the bright side at least now he wouldn't have to worry about picking the lock. Luckily, his thick leather jacket had protected his back from the glass, and he'd braced himself with the iron poker he still held in one hand when it'd seemed he might be in danger of sliding to the floor. His boots had crunched glass into powder as he'd lunged for the spirit, poker swinging like a bat in the hands of a major league ballplayer, dispersing her again. Her shriek had reached decibels only a teenage girl's could, and Dean had been tempted to check and see if his ears were bleeding.

Turning, he'd grabbed for the cheerleading uniform that was on display in the trophy case, tearing it down from its place of honor, and dumping it into a pile on the floor, right in the midst of all the broken glass. For good measure, he'd grabbed the pom-poms too—those would be fun to try and burn—and the picture that had been on display with them. At least they hadn't memorialized her friggin' megaphone. Piling those items on top of the uniform, he'd pulled out the salt from the duffel he'd dropped and sprinkled it liberally on the mound of memorabilia. He'd glanced around warily as he'd felt in the duffel for the kerosene, but no sign of the Pep Squad yet, so he'd doused the pile and watched in satisfaction as the uniform and picture quickly took to flame at the touch of his lighter.

He'd grabbed the poker again and stood at the ready while he'd waited impatiently for those freakin' pom-poms to finally ignite, which they'd only done after the strands began to melt and clump together, letting off the noxious smell of burning plastic. Finally though, the whole pile had been alight, and he'd taken off at a run again for his dad and Sam, needing to make sure they were safe, that the spirit hadn't gone after them while he'd been busy.

He'd sighed in relief when they'd been just as he'd left them. Then had felt his blood freeze up again when he'd taken in Sam's pale face and shaking hands and too-bright eyes, and realized that his dad still hadn't regained consciousness.

Now, hours later, Dean stared at his dad as he sat up in the hospital bed, bruised and definitely worse for the wear, but _awake_ and _alive_ and undeniably _John Winchester_. He'd already intimidated the nurse who'd come in to give him his pain meds, threatened to sign himself out AMA if they didn't get someone up there ASAP to set his shoulder so he could get out of there, and read Dean the riot act for dragging him to the hospital in the first place.

They'd stitched each other up before, and Dean knew they would undoubtedly do so again, but it'd worried him that John hadn't regained consciousness until after they'd gotten him to the car. It had gone against Dean's instincts to move his dad at all, not knowing how badly he'd been hurt, but since they hadn't exactly had a plausible explanation for what they'd been doing at the high school torching some poor dead cheerleader's personal effects, there hadn't been any other option open to them. Even once he'd come to, John had been groggy and disoriented, or he'd have no doubt ordered Dean just to take him to the motel and patch him up himself. Dean had decided to chance his father's wrath, rather than risk not getting treatment for what might be more than a simple concussion. Turned out it had been the right call—the initial CAT scan had shown that John had bleeding on his brain. They'd been able to get it stabilized without having to resort to surgery though, and had given him a healthy dose of morphine for the pain. Now that the worst was over and they knew their dad was going to be okay, the adrenaline and fear were starting to wear off, leaving both boys pale and a little shaky.

John looked at his boys, noting the tightness around Dean's mouth and the sheen of moisture in Sammy's eyes. At least Dean was trying to keep his game face on, for Sammy's sake. But John knew his boy, and this whole thing had rattled Dean. Badly. For his part, John had done his best to act like his normal self—lecturing, intimidating, gruff—in an effort to reassure the boys that he was fine. It had taken the edge off, but they still looked so young, rattled…vulnerable. He had to do something to get that look off their faces. He used the firmest voice he could muster up, "You heard the doc, boys. CAT scan showed the bleeding's stopped and I'm stable. X-rays were clear; nothing's broken. Just gotta set the dislocated shoulder, and I'll be good to go." He cleared his throat and gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile, "Why don't you boys go down to the caf and get some food 'fore they close up shop?"

Sam and Dean looked uneasily at each other, clearly not wanting to leave him. They did that thing where they communicated without words, and finally Dean spoke up for them both. "Nah, think we'll wait up here with you."

John tried again. "Sammy's probably hungry, Dean. I'll be fine. You go." And it was a testament to how shaken up he still was that Sam didn't even object to the nickname. He just shook his head, wordlessly protesting the idea that he needed anything.

John turned to Dean, who was clearly torn between his instinct to take care of Sammy and his need to stay with his injured father. He took all the responsibility for their family on his own young shoulders. Always had, and Heaven help him, John had let him. Sometimes he wondered what Mary would say at what he'd done to her sweet little boy, at the weight he'd piled on those once-tiny shoulders.

Mary. She'd loved this holiday. Contrary to what his boys probably thought, John was _very_ aware it was Thanksgiving today. He'd just been trying his best to push memories of other Thanksgivings, of her, out of his mind. Until he'd seen the spirit they'd gone to hunt standing there in front of him—curly blond hair, big blue eyes, flashing dimples—and suddenly his chest had been too tight to draw in air as he'd seen transposed over her the image of another fresh-faced teenage girl who'd once been full of spunk and life, and the pain—that same old pain that had become his near-constant companion—had been new again and had caught him off guard and the next thing he'd known he'd been flying through the air, crashing into darkness and dreams of a teenaged Mary burning on the ceiling of their old high school while their song played on in the background. Sometimes unconsciousness was not the escape it should have been.

And it suddenly hit John just how screwed up their lives were, that instead of a friendly holiday game of football like they'd told the doctor, they'd been out hunting down a homicidal spirit. Putting their lives on the line. No turkey dinner for them in a home warm with laughter and love; no day spent thinking of all the things they had to be thankful for; no happy ending.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly weary beyond words. "Take your brother and go eat, Dean. That's an order." He tried not to see the betrayed look Dean leveled at him as he steered Sammy out the door.

************************************************************

Sam and Dean barely made it to the hospital cafeteria before it closed. By the time they got down there, pickings were pretty slim and they had to take whatever was left. To Dean's great disappointment, this meant no yams with little marshmallows on top, as those were all long gone. Even worse, there was no pie by the time Dean got to the dessert section. He looked disgustedly at the offerings that _were_ available—a bowl of lime jello and a piece of white sheet cake—and hoped Sam had fared better than him. While he paid for their dinner, Sam went ahead to get them a table. They had their pick—no one else was down there, and the staff was closing everything up to go home.

Sam looked up when Dean came over and set his tray down. "Well, at least the food doesn't look too bad. We've definitely had worse meals on Thanksgiving."

"That's for sure," Dean agreed as he settled himself into the seat across from Sam. "Hey, do you remember those TV dinners Dad used to bring home sometimes for Thanksgiving? Those were great." Dean smiled nostalgically. He was glad for the chance to lighten the mood. Sam had been too quiet since Dad had been hurt, and a quiet Sammy was a brooding Sammy.

Sam just gave his brother a look of amused affection, knowing what he was trying to do. "Those were _terrible,_ man. And besides, that was _you_. Dad usually just ignores Thanksgiving till it's over." He picked up the roll on his tray and gave it a bounce against the table. It was hard as a rock.

Dean waved a hand, dismissing Sam's correction as unimportant. "He has his reasons, Sam. Thanksgiving…it's a hard time for him."

"As opposed to the rest of us, who are suckin' on lollipops and twirlin' candy canes?" Sam responded sardonically, with no small amount of bitterness.

"It's not that, man. It's just…Thanksgiving was a big deal, ya know? Before." Dean gestured vaguely with his hand, unwilling to clarify further.

"Yeah, okay." Sam nodded, and fell silent. He understood this to mean _Before the Fire_. Back when Mom was alive. He absently played with his small mound of mashed potatoes, flattening them with his fork, then building them up again into a small hill.

Dean watched him for a minute, amused, remembering a six-year-old Sammy who used to do the same thing. He grinned and shook his head. Kid might be a teenager now and chock-full-o-angst, but some things never changed.

Sam cleared his throat once. Then, "Dean, can I ask you a question?"

"Is there any way to stop you?" Dean asked wryly. It was a question he'd heard in various forms millions of times throughout their lives, and he'd never yet been able to stop Sammy from pursuing something he was curious about.

"It's about…Mom." Sam looked up at his brother, tentative. Not wanting to hurt Dean, but needing to know.

Dean sighed and looked away.

"It's just…I wish I could remember, ya know?" Sam pushed on. "Anything. I mean, I remember the stuff you used to tell me sometimes, when I was little, to help me get to sleep. But…I don't have any memories of my own of her." Sam was morose and Dean felt a pang in his heart, not just of loss, but of _Sammy's_ loss.

He sighed heavily, set down the fork he'd been using to cut up his turkey, and ran a weary hand over his face. He _so_ knew he was gonna regret this. "Okay, Sammy. It's Thanksgiving, so…okay. One question." He gestured with his hand to motion him to get on with it. "Out with it. Let's get this over with." Sam looked so startled at his capitulation it was almost comical. Except that nothing was comical right then.

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts and decide what he most wanted to know and how to phrase it so as to get the most information out of Dean without hurting his brother any more than necessary, Sam finally settled on, "Do you remember anything? About those Thanksgivings…Before? With her?" He looked down at his plate again, fork twirling in the gravy this time, as he waited to see if Dean was going to answer him. After a moment went by in silence, he looked up to watch his brother, hazel eyes beseeching.

Dean's throat worked and he swallowed a couple of times before answering. When it came out though, his voice sounded normal, if softer than usual. "Not a lot. It's more a general feeling than specific memories, ya know? A feeling of being warm, happy, safe…loved." The last word was a whisper. He looked over at Sam, whose eyes had filled with sympathetic tears at the sight of his big brother's pain. He paused a moment, swiped at his eyes and cleared his throat. "And pie. There was always lots of pie. I do remember that." He gave a lopsided grin. "Guess that's why I like it so much now, ya know? It's like…as long as there's pie on Thanksgiving, all's right with the world." Dean snorted a laugh. "Or as right as our screwed-up lives get, anyway."

Seeing that Sam was still listening intently, Dean continued. It felt kinda good to talk about Mom. Besides, they were already having a caring-and-sharing moment, so why not go for broke? "Y'know, I had to do a paper for school once, when I was little, about our family's Thanksgiving celebrations. Dad told me Mom used to have us go around the table and say something we were thankful for each year. Like a tradition, ya know? He said she always said the same thing—'Her boys.' That's what she used to call me 'n dad. Her boys." Dean smiled sadly, wishing he could remember it for himself. Wishing Sammy could remember their mom, and how much she'd loved him.

Sam smiled wistfully, trying to imagine it. "I'm sorry I never got to have Thanksgiving with her. With all of you."

"You did, Sammy." Off Sam's surprised look, Dean clarified, "That last Thanksgiving, she would've been pregnant with you, right? So you were there, man. I know it's not the same, but…" Dean rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort at the emotional waters they were treading. Still, he pushed on. For Sammy. "She meant you, too. She was thankful for you."

"Really? You think so?" Sam's hopeful face looked much younger than his fourteen years at that moment, eyes filled with longing for what he'd never known.

"I _know_." Dean said firmly, then cleared his throat again. "Anyway, that's it. That's all I can remember." He shrugged, as if it was inconsequential, but the movement was tight with pain. The green eyes he fixed on his little brother held anguish and self-condemnation. "I've tried, man, but…I just didn't hold on to the memories tight enough, I guess. Didn't hold on to _her_ tight enough."

Even at fourteen, Sam knew that wasn't true. He didn't know anyone who held onto those he loved tighter than Dean. "Dean…" He started to say something, to protest, but Dean just held up a hand to ward it off. Sam noticed the sheen in his brother's eyes, and knew he was at his emotional limit for the day. So he did what little brothers do best—he distracted him. "You remember that casserole you brought home that one year?"

"Do I?" Dean gave a wet laugh. "Ugh, that thing was _terrible_. Tasted like something died in it."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, that's what ya get for tryin' to run a con on the motel owner."

"Dude, there was no con involved! I just told her Dad had to go out for work and we were there all alone on Thanksgiving, and you were whinin' for Thankgiving dinner but I didn't have any to give you. That was all totally true! Can I help it if she felt sorry for us and decided to feed us?" Dean tried to look innocent.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean, well I guess your little sob story got a different result than you'd planned, huh?"

"What? So it's _my_ fault the woman decided to feed us a science experiment?" Dean huffed, indignant.

"It wasn't a science experiment, Dean. It was a _casserole_," Sam reminded patiently.

"Not like any casserole I've ever heard of," Dean emphatically denied.

"Well…" Sam grimaced, not believing he was actually defending the casserole, but knowing the banter was doing his brother good. "I guess she thought it would be easier to just combine all the Thanksgiving dishes into one, rather than cook them all separately."

"Sam, that thing was nasty, man. She had turkey in there with mashed potatoes and stuffing and corn and green beans and who-knows-what-else, all covered in a layer of biscuits." Dean shuddered at the memory.

"Yeah, it was pretty awful." Sam chuckled as he remembered Dean's face when he'd tried it.

For his part, Dean could still remember Sammy nearly gagging as he'd bravely choked down a bite. "_Pretty_ awful? I was trying to figure out whether we needed to do a salt and burn on it or an exorcism."

Sam huffed a laugh at the mental image that invoked. A companionable silence fell over them as they sat eating their turkey dinners. Without him having to ask, Dean raked all of the green beans from his plate onto his little brother's. Sam returned the favor by letting Dean have most of his stuffing.

When he was done eating, Dean pushed his chair back a little from the table with a satisfied sigh.

Sam looked up from the last of his green beans. "Time for dessert?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, maybe we can hit the vending machine on the way back to dad's room. Get some peanut M&M's. They were out of pie."

"Yeah…or we could eat this." Sam grinned and pulled out the container he'd stashed on the chair next to him so Dean wouldn't see it. "I got the last piece when we went through the line."

"Really?" Dean's eyes lit up and a huge grin split his face. "Way to go, Sammy!"

Sam laughed. He was glad he could do this for Dean, especially with what he'd just told Sam about why having pie on Thanksgiving was so important to him. He would've happily let Dean have the whole slice of pumpkin pie, but Sam knew his brother would never take it, not if there wasn't enough for both of them. So he divided it into two pieces and slid the larger one over to Dean, who dug into it with gusto, showing more enthusiasm than Sam had seen from him all day. The delight on his face made the cares of the day fade away, and Sam smiled at him fondly as he ate his own pie.

Dean made quick work of the pie and beamed at Sam when he was done. "That was awesome, Sammy. Thanks!"

Sam shrugged, though he glowed at Dean's praise. "No big deal. I seem to remember you doing it for me—more than once. Remember those sodas you got last year?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, those things were great."

"They were awful, Dean! Even _you_ couldn't finish most of the flavors," Sam teased, smiling at the memory of what his brother had done for him the year before, coming up with an ingenious way for him to have Thanksgiving dinner even though his throat had been too swollen for him to eat. Dean was always doing stuff like that for Sam. Taking care of him.

"Whaddya talkin' about, Sammy? It's a miracle of modern technology—pie in a bottle!" Dean grinned in satisfaction. "I can't help it if you insisted on trying all the healthy crap—dude, _real_ brussel sprouts taste terrible, did ya really think the _soda_ would be any better? And what kinda freak voluntarily eats their vegetables anyway?" he razzed.

In response to this insult, Sam tossed the hard roll he had left over from dinner directly at Dean's head. It hit with a solid thunk.

"Hey, man!" Dean glared at him in mock indignation. "That could've put out an eye! It's all fun and games, little brother, till somebody loses an eye." He smirked, "You'd better watch it, y'know what they say about paybacks."

Sam just laughed. "Bring it on, big brother. Bring it on!" Then he turned and ran from the room with Dean in hot pursuit, intent on retaliation.


	8. 1999: Little Sugar Falls Cemetery

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_1999: Little Sugar Falls Cemetery_

"C'mon, boys, double-time it!" John Winchester barked the command over his shoulder as he turned to head back to where they'd left the car parked behind the mausoleum so it would be out of sight of the road.

"He's gotta be freakin' kiddin' with this!" Sam complained bitterly, casting a dark glare in the direction their dad had gone. He turned back to Dean almost accusingly, "Where's he going, anyway? Don't see why _he_ can't help." The anger in his sixteen-year-old voice was all too familiar to Dean, especially when directed at their dad. John and Sam were like flint and rock, sparking against each other until Dean feared they would ignite a fire that would destroy their family a second time. More and more, he had to place himself between them, trying to avoid just such a blaze, but all too often he found himself singed for his efforts. The whole thing was pretty friggin' exhausting, actually.

Dean knew Sam was frustrated because the cold weather had made the ground rock hard. Grave digging in the winter—_not_ fun. And then there was the ice. The freezing rain that had been falling for the last hour had left a thin sheet of ice everywhere that made it hard to even stand up. For the first half hour, Sam had reminded him of Bambi, long legs going every which way when he tried to walk on the stuff. Not that, ya know, Dean had ever seen Bambi. Cuz only girls watched Bambi. Well—girls and a four-year-old Sammy. Dean had always skipped the part in the beginning where Bambi's mom died, though. To this day, Sam didn't know that Bambi's mom had been killed by hunters. He just thought she was off foraging for food—or whatever it was deer did during their downtime.

Anyway, they'd finally had to resort to sprinkling rock salt around the grave, just to get enough traction for them to stay upright long enough to do the required digging. On the bright side, at least rock salt was something they always carried a lot of. And it was kinda nice, for a change, to use it for something as normal as icy weather. Even if it was—ya know, at a cemetery.

"Sam. Don't start." Dean didn't even look up from where he was wedging the shovel into the hardened ground, trying to make some headway in the grave they were supposed to be digging. The earth crunched loudly under his assault, but he managed to get a good shovelful that he tossed to the side.

"Dean—" Sam responded hotly, taking his own frustration out on the unyielding soil, using his shovel to stab and gouge, gearing up for an angry outpouring.

"No, Sam. Just…don't, okay? It's Thanksgiving, man." Dean's voice was equal parts frustration and weariness. Whether the weariness was physical or emotional, Sam couldn't tell, but he'd wager it was both. And that just stoked the fire inside him ever higher.

"Yeah, Dean, that's my whole point! Couldn't this have waited? It's not like the ghost's out killing people. And no one's gonna even go into the house between now and tomorrow. We could go back to the motel, get a good night's sleep, come back when it's not the middle of a friggin' _ice storm_. You can't honestly tell me you want to be out here in this!" Sam's voice rose along with his anger, and Dean was glad for the cover the gusting wind provided. He did _not_ need John overhearing this—a full-blown fight was sure to follow, and he was just too tired to deal with that tonight. It was _Thanksgiving_—couldn't they just, for one night, _try_ to get along? Was that really so much to ask?

Dean just sighed and rubbed the sweat from his forehead with the back of one arm while he leaned against his shovel with the other. He winced as the wind gusted, blowing needle-sharp sleet into his face. The storm was dying down; it was barely doing anything compared to earlier, but it was still wicked cold. His fingers were starting to go numb, and already he couldn't feel his toes. He rubbed his hands together and cupped them near his mouth, trying to warm them with his breath. At least Sammy had gloves—Dean had given him the pair he'd found in the trunk. He pulled deep for patience and managed to respond in a voice that was calm, but firm. "I'm sure Dad has his reasons for wanting it done tonight."

Sam gave him a challenging glare and viciously stabbed his shovel into the ground, leaving it there and spreading his arms wide in challenge. Even at sixteen, his arm span was impressive. "Oh yeah, Dean? What are they then?"

Dean bent back over his shovel, grabbing another pile of the brittle dirt and tossing it to the side as he responded, "Don't know, Sam. Don't need to know. Dad says it needs to be done now, it needs to be done now." Feeling the weight of Sam's glare, he gave an exasperated sigh and looked over his shoulder at his brother. "C'mon man, cut me some slack here! I'm just as cold and wet as you. Faster we get this done, faster we get dry and warm."

Sam just huffed and went back to shoveling.

"Hey, at least when we torch the guy it'll warm things up some, huh?" Dean threw him an insolent grin, wiggling his eyebrows. "Too bad we don't have some marshmallows or hot dogs with us—we coulda had a Thanksgiving bonfire."

Sam gave a snort, but some of the tension left his body and Dean sighed in relief. It was the most he could hope for.

************************************************************

John braced his forearms against the roof of the car, letting his head drop in weariness. It had been a long day, and he couldn't wait for it to be over. He knew he should be out there helping the boys dig—if it came right down to it, _none_ of them should be out there in this weather, especially not trying to dig a grave. But John needed this hunt over with and he needed it over with yesterday.

He'd interviewed the house's owner the day before, trying to catch him before the family headed out of town for the holidays. Guy was a widower with two little kids—a boy and a girl. They were all scared out of their wits at what was going on in the house. It had only been six months since the wife had died and they'd moved to the area for a fresh start. Some fresh start it had turned out to be. The ghost hadn't killed anyone yet, but John could tell it was working up to it. The incidents kept escalating, getting more and more violent, and John knew the dad had noticed it, too. He was clearly terrified for his family, desperate to keep them safe and not let anything else break them apart.

John tried to keep those he interviewed, those he saved, at a distance. To care about them in an impersonal big-picture kinda way. But this guy…he'd gotten under John's skin. Had reminded him too much of another young father trying to make his way through a suddenly hostile world without the one person who'd been his balance, struggling to navigate through a world newly populated with an enemy you couldn't see and didn't know how to fight, and trying with all you had in you to protect the two young lives entrusted to you.

With just a little less knowledge and a lot less paranoia, John and his boys could easily have been finished off by something supernatural. As it was, he knew how it felt to be a target, to have the creeping sense that something out there wanted to harm your family, and not know what you could do to protect them. It brought back to him all too vividly those days immediately After the Fire and the sleepless nights he'd spent sitting up, listening to tree branches scratching against the window and whispers on the wind, feeling the cold malevolence that was after his children and terrified he wouldn't be enough to protect them. He'd sworn he'd do _whatever it took_ to keep them safe, to never feel helpless again.

And now he was faced with another father in a similar situation—something supernatural had attached itself to his family and he didn't know how to defend them against it. John felt like if he could save that father, save that family, maybe it would go a little way toward saving his own.

So they were here, in this cold, dark cemetery during an ice storm, trying to get to the bones they needed to salt and burn before that family came back home and was in danger again. He knew the boys didn't understand the urgency he felt, but John couldn't stand the thought of those kids getting hurt—the little boy with his solemn green eyes and the little girl with her deep dimples reminded John too much of two other motherless children, and he vowed again that nothing, _nothing_ was going to hurt that family. Not while he was around to stop it.

Of course, the boys didn't know any of this; didn't know why this hunt had him so twisted up inside, because as usual, they were on a need-to-know basis and this—well, _this_ they didn't need to know.

John gave a long sigh, stuffed memories down deep, and ran a weary hand over his beard. It was time to get this thing done. He straightened and went to see how his boys were faring.

************************************************************

"You boys 'bout done here?" John's voice was gruff when he rejoined the boys near the open grave. They'd made pretty good progress, by the looks of things, and John was impressed. It couldn't have been easy with how hard the ground was.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Dean hurried to beat him to it. "Yes, sir."

"Good," John nodded in satisfaction. "Wrap it up and I'll take you out for Thanksgiving dinner. Think I saw a sign at the diner we passed on the way in." Both boys stared at him, eyes a goggle. John sighed at their look and rubbed the back of his neck. Did they really think he'd forgotten it was Thanksgiving? Guess he'd missed or ignored enough holidays to deserve that. But he was here for this one, and suddenly in the mood to treat his boys a little.

Before Dean could stop himself, it slipped out. "Really?" his voice was hopeful, yearning, and it pinched at John's heart to hear that voice come out of his tough-as-nails twenty-year-old. Sam just watched his father warily, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the offer to be yanked away, and that hurt John's heart a little too.

He looked at his sons—knee-deep in dirt, cold and wet, and _doing the job_. John allowed his eyes to soften. "Really," he nodded, voice firm. "Get that wrapped up and we'll go have a nice big Thanksgiving dinner—or close as we can get at a diner, anyway. We'll even get pie." The corners of his mouth twitched minutely as he saw Dean's eyes light up at the mention of pie. "Sound good?"

The boys answered in unison, emphatic. "Yes, _sir_."

"Good." John gave them a small smile before turning back to the car for the extra container of rock salt, since they'd used up the one they had with them.

The boys moved like their feet were on fire and got the job done. John let them warm up a little by the blaze they set, then they all worked together to fill the grave back in and stow the gear in the trunk.

When everything had been taken care of, they all piled back into the car and went to the warm and cozy diner John had seen, where they ordered the biggest Thanksgiving meal they'd had in too many years to count. There they relaxed as they began to thaw out, food and warmth making them loose-limbed and sociable, in no hurry to be anywhere for once. Dean fed the jukebox in the corner and filled the playlist with classic rock songs, and as promised, John got them each a big slice of pumpkin pie to top off their dinner.

They sat long after their meal was over, drinking coffee, talking, just enjoying one another's company. And as Dean sat in the warm glow of the overhead lights in that homey little diner, bracketed on one side by Sam and watching his father give a booming laugh at something Sammy had said—the two of them actually getting along for once, Dean thought it was the best Thanksgiving he'd had in years.


	9. 2000: Mercer Memorial Hospital

_This one's for SupernaturalGeek. Congrats on the award, sweetie!_

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_2000: Mercer Memorial Hospital_

Sam Winchester hated hospitals. Always had. He'd spent way too much time in them for his short seventeen years, and with very rare exception, every time had been bad news. He had to admit though, he'd never thought they'd be there for anything non job-related. So it had come as quite a surprise when they'd found out Dean needed surgery—not because of an injury from a hunt, but to have his tonsils out.

Dean, naturally, had been less than thrilled at this news. In fact, his exact words had been, "Dude! I'm twenty-one, not freakin' five. What twenty-one-year-old gets their tonsils out?!" in that tone of voice that clearly said this was an indignity he just could not bear to suffer.

In fact, Sam had no illusions that Dean _would've_ suffered through the surgery, if their dad hadn't made it an order. And even though he thought it was beyond messed up that Dean still followed their dad's orders, even though he was an _adult_ now, Sam was forced to admit that his dad was right on this one. Much as that admission pained him.

Of course, Sam figured it was merely a matter of practicality for their dad. Earlier in the year, Dean had somehow managed to convince him to let them stay put in one location for Sam's senior year of high school—providing Sam help out with hunts on the weekends and with research during the week when his schoolwork was done.

Sam still didn't know how Dean had pulled it off. Compromise was _not_ in John Winchester's vocabulary, and that's exactly what this was. Dean had managed to find a city that was big enough for them blend in, yet still had a good school system for Sam. Perhaps most importantly to John, it was centrally located near several larger cities that tended to have active paranormal scenes. Just an hour's drive would take them into a couple of different states, depending on the direction they chose, so they were sure to find plenty to hunt on the weekends.

Sam could only guess it must've taken hours of research and strategizing for Dean to pull the plan together, but he'd done it—just as he always did when something was important to Sam—and he'd managed to convince John to go along with it. Sam had been beyond relieved when Dean had told him the news. Finally, he could settle in somewhere—make friends, get to know his teachers, get in some of the advanced classes that not all of the schools he went to had available. Live normal. It was all he'd ever wanted.

Dean had pointed out that it would also give them a chance to refill the coffers a little, so both he and John had gotten paying jobs for a change. And that was normal too—well, not Winchester-normal, but other-people-normal—and it was a huge relief to Sam. He hated the credit card scams and hustling they usually needed to make ends meet. But this—this was a chance to just be a normal family for once. Well, ya know…mostly. Sam would take what he could get.

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise that he'd been too busy enjoying his slice of the apple pie life to notice at first that something was wrong with his older brother. Dean had been complaining about his throat for months now, just little comments here and there that neither Sam nor John had paid much attention to. Sure, he'd been a little hoarse, but it hadn't seemed like a big deal, and Dean was never one to make a big issue of his own well-being. But in the past week, Sam had noticed that Dean wasn't eating, just picking at his food to make it look like he was, and that wasn't like him at all. So he'd started watching his brother a little more closely, and what he'd seen had been upsetting. Dean was pale and a little shaky, rubbing his throat a lot when he thought no one was looking. He was unusually quiet—and how had Sam missed _that_?—with dark circles under his eyes. In his quest for answers, Sam had pretended to sleep one night, but had stayed awake to watch Dean. He'd realized Dean wasn't breathing well when he slept, his inhalations raspy and shallow no matter what position he tried, which was probably why he seemed exhausted all the time.

Sam had tried to get Dean to talk to him, to tell him what was going on, and Dean had just shrugged it off as no big deal. But Sam had known something was wrong with his big brother, and was mad at himself for not seeing it sooner. He was even angrier with John, who'd been too preoccupied with the hunt for their mom's killer and too restless at staying in one place for so long to even notice that there was something wrong with his oldest son. Not that Sam's anger was anything new—lately it seemed all he was capable of feeling toward his dad.

At last, desperately worried and unable to get anything out of his stubborn older brother, Sam had confronted John with his observations and let _him_ force the truth out of Dean. He'd finally admitted that he'd barely eaten in days and that his throat had gotten so swollen he was having trouble even swallowing water. John had immediately ordered Dean off to the doctor and Sam had gone along with him to make sure Dean didn't "forget" any of the instructions he was given. After a brief exam, the doctor had declared that Dean was severely dehydrated and suffering from one of the worst cases of tonsillitis he'd ever seen. He'd scheduled Dean for immediate surgery to have his tonsils removed the day before Thanksgiving.

Dean had tried everything he could think of to get out of the surgery, but since his job provided actual health insurance—in his own name, no less—their dad had insisted there was no reason not to go through with it. There wasn't much Sam and his dad agreed on anymore, but Dean's health was at the top of that short list, and he didn't stand a chance against their combined efforts.

Tonsillectomies were harder the older you were, but in the end, the surgery had gone pretty well. However, he'd been so dehydrated that they'd forced Dean to stay in the hospital overnight so they could give him fluids intravenously until the swelling in his throat went down.

So here they were in the hospital on Thanksgiving. Sadly, it wasn't the first time, nor was it likely to be the last. Dean had been grouchier and more sullen than usual all day, and Sam thought he knew why. It had to stink—a holiday completely devoted to eating and pie, two of Dean's very favorite things, and he couldn't partake because of how swollen his throat still was. He was allowed ice cream, but no solid food yet, which meant no Thanksgiving dinner. Much as Dean would've denied it if anyone had said something, Sam knew that was the reason behind his unusually bad mood.

He'd mulled it over all day, turning the problem over in his mind, and remembering things Dean had done for him in the past to make the holiday special. He'd thought, too, about what his brother had told him about those holidays Before The Fire. Finally, he'd taken Dad aside and asked if he could borrow the truck, just for a few minutes, to run out and get something for Dean. Surprisingly, his dad had turned over the keys without a fuss. Sam had hoped the promotional offer he'd seen a couple of days before was still available. He knew just what would make Dean feel better.

Now, coming back into the room, he nodded to his dad and tossed him the keys. John caught them in mid-air, gestured toward Dean with his chin and asked, "You got him?" Dean rolled his eyes at this, but Sam nodded that he was ready for the switch-off and John got up, stretching to get the kinks out of his back from sitting on the hard plastic chair for so long. "Good, I'm gonna grab a cup of caffeine and a bite from the caf." He turned to Dean just before he got to the door and fixed him with a stern look, though the corners of his mouth twitched just a bit. "Son…try not to drive the nurses crazy while I'm gone."

Dean just gave him a cocky grin in response. He still wasn't talking much, because of how swollen and sore his throat was, but his smile said it all.

It was the first smile Sam had seen out of him all day, and it was pretty short-lived. As soon as their dad left, it faded from his face like sugar melting in the rain. "Hey, Dean, how ya feelin'?" Sam's voice was soft with empathy. He knew his brother hated being sick.

Dean just shrugged and whispered, "Fine." The action caused a slight wince that he didn't quite manage to cover. The look his younger brother gave him clearly said he wasn't fooling anyone.

"Gotcha somethin'." Sam walked over and put the small brown paper bag down in front of Dean on the white rolling table that extended over the bed.

"Booze?" Dean's quiet voice was hopeful, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Sam snorted. "Course not—you can't afford to lose the brain cells, big brother." He smirked as he threw Dean's words from that long-ago Thanksgiving back at him.

Dean wished he could growl at that, but as he'd already found out earlier during a tangle with an interfering nurse, he was utterly incapable of growling in his current condition. So he settled for a hopefully-lethal glare.

"Go on, Dean, it isn't going to bite you," Sam teased and then rolled his eyes when Dean just stared at the bag a little mistrustfully before opening it to reach inside.

When he pulled out the large striped cardboard cup, he looked quizzically at Sam. Turning back to it, he pried off the thin plastic lid to see what was inside. "Shake?" he ventured, smiling at the sight of the ice cream drink. He immediately went to work tapping the straw in his fist against the table to get the wrapper down. "Thanks, bro." His eyes, when he looked at Sam, were warm and grateful.

Dean always seemed so surprised and touched when Sam or their dad did the least little thing for him. It made Sam sad sometimes, that he expected so little from them.

For now, Sam just grinned in anticipation of his response. "Not just a shake, Dean. A _pumpkin pie_ shake."

Dean's eyes widened and his face lit up like a child's. "Yeah?" He stuck the straw in and took a big drink, closing his eyes in appreciation at both the flavor and the soothing cool on his throat. "Awesome," he whispered happily, opening his eyes once more to look at Sam. His smile was so bright it made Sam's throat hurt to see it. It took so little to make Dean happy. Sam was just glad he was finally getting the chance to give back some of what Dean always gave so freely and so often to him.

He cleared his throat and smiled back at his big brother. "Can't have Thanksgiving without pie, right, Dean?" His dimples deepened in his cheeks at the sight of his brother's bright eyes and beaming smile. He nodded toward the bag. "There're napkins in there if you need 'em." He settled down in the chair by Dean's bed and busied himself pulling books out of his schoolbag, while watching his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Dean looked at him again in question, but reached back into the bag to pull out the stack of napkins when he saw Sam was busy doing something else. The top one caught his eye. It had something written on it in black Sharpie. He glanced up at Sam again quickly, but relaxed when Sam still seemed absorbed in his schoolbooks. He looked closer at the napkin, and saw the message Sam had scrawled on there with the borrowed marker. _I'm thankful for __you__. Jerk._

Dean snorted a little wetly, remembering their mom and her Thanksgiving tradition. He folded the napkin up carefully and put it in the notebook they'd brought him earlier in case he needed to tell them anything while his throat was still too swollen to talk. So far he'd only used it to proposition a couple of nurses and threaten one orderly he hadn't liked the looks of.

Looking at his little brother, who by now he _knew_ was watching him out of the corner of his eye, Dean quickly scribbled something down on the top sheet and tore it off. He wadded the paper up into a ball and aimed it right at Sam's head, then grabbed the remote and turned on the TV while he went happily back to his shake.

Sam grunted when the ball hit him, more out of indignation than anything else. He glanced over at his brother, who was studiously flipping channels and _not_ looking at him. He bent down and picked up the paper from where it had landed and unfolded it. The single word scrawled on it was just the one he'd expected to find, and he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head at the predictability of Dean being Dean. Then he put away his books and turned to watch TV with his big brother, propping his legs up on the end of Dean's bed. He guessed there were worse ways to spend Thanksgiving after all.


	10. The Stanford Years: The First, Sam

_This chapter was originally supposed to contain two parts, one from Sam's POV and one from Dean's. But due to length and technical difficulties, I had to divide it into two chapters. There will be a corresponding part from Dean's POV that will cover the same time frame as this one._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_The Stanford Years: The_ _First, Palo Alto_

Sam's first Thanksgiving at Stanford was the worst. He was one of the few students staying on campus during the holidays. Most of the others had gone home for the break, including the few friends he'd made so far, so he spent Thanksgiving eating alone in the cafeteria, surrounded by people he didn't know and who didn't know him.

The dining hall food was typical college cafeteria fare—barely edible. Stuffing so dry from its time under the warming lamp that he nearly choked on it, runny gravy, lumpy mashed potatoes, tough turkey—and all that was left was the dark meat, which he hated. Dean usually took the dark meat and let him have the white, but no…he wasn't going to think about that.

He shoveled his dinner down as quickly as he could, just wanting to get out of there—away from the laughter and the festive holiday spirit and the stupid paper turkeys they had decorated the cafeteria with to inject some cheer for the kids who couldn't make it home. He passed on the pie, too, just wanting to escape—get away, _anywhere_ away—and finally fled to the place he'd come to look on as a refuge whenever he needed solace…the library.

Libraries everywhere were the same—filled with knowledge in tangible form, knowledge you could see and smell and touch. It hung heavy in the air like a mantle, but a warm one you could wrap yourself in. There was an air of hushed expectancy in a library, as if you might hear the books whispering their secrets to you if you just listened closely enough. Sam always had. Libraries had long been a comfort to him.

So he retreated there now, considering himself lucky that this one was open because of all the grad students staying on campus. He grabbed a couple of the heaviest law books he could find, ones that would really require focus to understand and absorb, and shut himself in one of the study rooms, glass wall barricading him from the few other students sitting in ones or twos throughout the second floor.

He tried to immerse himself in law, to lose himself in _theory_ and _practice_, but his trademark powers of concentration had deserted him, so he finally turned to the book he'd grabbed on myth and folklore of the Appalachian region, and lost himself for a little while in tales of fish raining from the sky and the Bell Witch and mysterious dancing lights. It was oddly comforting, soothing somehow. Until he realized that the running commentary in his head that mocked the accounts of raining fish and grew excited over the Bell Witch and offered ideas on the cause of the dancing lights…was his brother's voice. He slammed the book shut, mood broken. Even the enchantment of learning could not soothe him tonight.

So Sam left the library, setting out alone across campus, night dark and stars heavy in the sky, feeling twisted inside and not knowing what to do. He pulled his cell phone from his bag—maybe he should call, maybe _just this once_—and saw that he'd missed a call when he'd been in the library, his phone set on silent. A call from a number he knew almost as well as his own. His heart began to race, to pound, and his palms grew damp and sweaty. He wanted to hear what his big brother had to say, but dreaded it in equal measure.

He sat down hard on a nearby concrete bench and tried to calm his jittery stomach. He watched the black trees sway against the darkened blue sky, stars twinkling so far away, looking cold and unfeeling. Those stars had often been a comfort when he was growing up. Dean had taught him the constellations, and Dad had taught them both to navigate by them, and Sam had taken great solace in the fact that the stars didn't change. They might move—just as he and his family often did—but they were always right where he knew where to find them; always in their designated position according to the time of year and his location. They were constant, ever vigilant—just like the One who'd placed them there—and nothing escaped their watchful gaze. The stars had been there for thousands of years before him, and would be there for thousands of years after. Steady. Able to be depended upon. No matter where the road took him, the stars were always above—ready to lend light to the night, even when the moon had hidden itself; ready to lend direction and comfort. But they did not comfort tonight. Their steadfastness was just a reminder of the one other constant in his life, and how he'd walked away from him in a moment of anger and hurt that he couldn't take back and didn't know how to fix.

Sam sighed, weary beyond measure, and braced himself to listen to Dean's message…but when he checked his voicemail box, it was empty. The _No new messages_ it blinked at him seemed mocking. He chided himself that the stab of loss over not hearing his brother's voice was silly. But it was there, and no less painful for his derision.

He was suddenly hit by a growing panic, a tidal wave of desperation—he had to hear his brother's voice. _Had to._ It felt like if he didn't hear it now, on Thanksgiving, it would sever some final tie; would be the loss of something he couldn't comprehend living without, even though he hated himself for needing it. And what had felt like independence, like growing up, suddenly felt like loneliness and loss and being left behind. Like being adrift in a vast ocean with no stars to guide you home.

Because the trouble was…when you ran away from home, it was _so hard_ to find your way back. Even if you did want nothing more at times than for someone to come after you and drag you home, if no one did…it was an impossible task. Nothing in him would allow him to return on his own—it would be like admitting he'd been wrong to leave and he _hadn't_ _been_…but he still wished he could go home, just for one night. Wished it didn't have to be _all_ or _nothing_. Wished those stars that had so reliably enabled him to navigate through darkened woods and desert and lonely back roads would tell him—_somehow_ tell him—the way to get home. To get to Dean. But the stars were distinctly silent tonight, imparting neither wisdom nor comfort. And Sam's home was far away and just as unreachable.

So he sat on that cold concrete bench, chill seeping into him through his jeans, under the stars that had been a companion his whole life, and he pulled up his one saved voicemail. It was from the day he'd left for school, after Dean had dropped him at the bus station and driven away, music blaring into silence. His brother had called later that night while Sam was sleeping, and left a message for him in a voice that had been husky and strained nearly to the point of breaking, but trying oh-so-hard to sound normal—a message telling Sam he was proud of him and that he hoped his little brother found everything he was looking for at school. Reminding Sam that if he ever needed anything, he knew where to find them. It was Deanspeak for _I love you_ and _Dad didn't mean it_ and _Of course you can come back, little brother, anytime you want_ and _Don't you forget about me_ and a hundred other things Dean never would've verbalized on pain of death, but Sam had _heard_ him saying nonetheless.

At the time, Sam had been too filled with righteous anger, too stubborn and proud and hurt by his father's disregard, to respond to his brother's overture. Later, when he'd cooled down and remembered that it wasn't his brother he was mad at, that Dean _wasn't_ just an extension of John—even if Sam often treated him that way—it had been too late. Too much time had passed to just casually call and say, "By the way, I got that message you left…" So he hadn't said anything. But he'd kept it. And every once in a while, when he felt like he was breaking apart from the sense of aloneness—he'd always been part of a pair, a matched set, _Sam 'n Dean _or _The Boys_ his whole life; and he felt like some conjoined twin who'd suddenly woken to find themselves alone, their other half missing; or someone who looked in the mirror and no longer saw their reflection steady, faithful, and constant, looking back at them—every once in a while, he'd let himself listen to the message. He'd soak in his brother's voice, taking strength from it that he knew he wasn't entitled to since he denied the giver anything in return, even acknowledgement.

On that dark Thanksgiving night, he fortified himself by listening to the message maybe a half dozen times before ruthlessly cutting himself off and carefully saving it for future occasions. He didn't call his brother, because nothing had really changed. And yet...everything had changed—he'd begun to realize just how much of himself he'd left behind that day so many miles ago, but he couldn't go back, didn't _want_ to go back, so the only thing left was to go forward. And hope that time and distance would eventually dull the ache inside him and he would feel whole again.

Thoroughly chilled, he dragged himself to his feet and headed back to the dorm and his small, dark room there. When he arrived, there was a small package waiting with a note attached from his resident assistant saying that it had come the day before and he'd signed for it since Sam was out.

Sam recognized the handwriting on the brown paper wrapper and numbly took it inside his room where he opened it as if he were a man drowning and it held the promise of life-giving oxygen. Inside, neatly boxed up and wrapped well to make sure it arrived in one piece, was a single slice of pecan pie. There was a note in the box, written on a page obviously torn from Dean's journal, as it had scribbled on the backside what Sam recognized as part of a protection charm.

_Hey, bro! Just finished a job in Georgia and the old lady was so grateful we took care of her little "problem" that she made us a __pie__! Awesome, huh? Thought you should have a piece—it's not Thanksgiving without pie, right? Hope it makes it okay. I know, you probably already had a great Thanksgiving dinner with all your new geekboy friends, but you can never have too much pie, right? Eat this piece for me. Dean_

Reading the note, Sam could hear Dean's voice as clearly as if he sat beside him. He ran his finger over the scrawled signature, as if touching it could somehow bring him closer to his brother. Then he proceeded to re-read the note several times, analyzing each word, drinking in nuance and meaning, trying to determine if his brother was doing okay without him or if he was as lonely and broken as Sam. Being that he was _Dean_, it was hard to tell.

When he was satisfied that he'd gotten everything he could from the note, Sam carefully smoothed it out, pressing it flat to get rid of the wrinkles. He reached for the duffel he kept under his bed and unzipped it, pulling out the large shoebox that was inside. Growing up they hadn't been able to keep much, as far as sentimental items went, since they'd been constantly on the move and the Impala's trunk space had been mostly taken up with weapons and tools of the trade. Their dad had allowed them each one shoebox that they could fill with whatever they wanted—no questions asked. Sam smirked, remembering how indignant Dean had been when he first realized that Sam's boat-sized feet were a distinct advantage in this case, since he now had a much larger box to fill than his older brother.

Even though Sam had left that nomadic life behind, he'd hung on to the shoebox and all it contained, bringing these few treasures with him to Stanford. Some days, when things were bad, he would sit and go through them and wonder that a life could be summed up so meagerly. But for now, he opened the box and carefully placed the note inside, right on top of the picture of his mom and dad. He kept meaning to get a frame for that, but he just didn't think he could bear to look at a reminder every day of what he'd lost—not just yet.

Instead, he pulled out the photo he always kept on top—a picture of him and Dean on his graduation day. Dean had gone all out for the occasion, buying one of those cheap disposable cameras and generally making a nuisance of himself taking pictures. He'd snapped photos of Sam giving his speech, Sam with the friends he'd made senior year, and of the two of them goofing off after the ceremony. There were even a couple of Sam and Dad at the little graduation dinner Dean had insisted on having when Dad got back from his hunt. Sam had been surprised, and touched, when the dinner had been accompanied by a gift, a curved blade sharp enough to split a melon—or a zombie skull, as Dean had pronounced with relish—and a small lopsided cake. It had been a true celebration of Sam's accomplishment, and it made Sam sad to realize he couldn't remember any similar celebration when Dean had graduated. They'd finally gotten the pictures developed just a week or so before Sam had left for school, and he'd surreptitiously slipped a few of the pictures out of the protective sleeve to take with him when he went.

This picture was his favorite. It showed Sam in his red graduation robe, mortarboard askew from Dean's rough-housing, tassel blowing in the wind. He looked—happy. He had _been_ happy. He'd gotten the letter from Stanford offering him a full ride just a few days before, his speech had gone over well, and though his dad had missed the ceremony, his big brother's cheers had been obnoxiously loud when Sam's name had been called. Sam had felt full of hope and on the verge of all of his dreams coming true.

In the photo, Sam clutched his diploma like a talisman and had one arm slung around his older brother's shoulder while he beamed deep dimples at the camera. And Dean—Dean looked like a proud papa, face alight with reflected happiness at his brother's achievement, chest swelled with pride, eyes warm with good humor. Sam hadn't yet told his brother about the offer from Stanford and he knew that Dean had been anticipating them all going on the road again full-time, no doubt thinking that once Sam was out of school the fighting between him and John would lessen. It stabbed at Sam's heart that the coming months had disappointed them both so cruelly.

With one last lingering look, Sam returned the photo to its customary place of honor, now on top of the note that was a new addition. He carefully placed the shoebox back in his duffel, on top of the curved blade he had wrapped in one of Dean's old flannels and brought with him.

Turning back to the package he'd received, Sam unwrapped the pie and stared at it for a long moment, thinking about that Thanksgiving so many years before and his brother's words _It's like…as long as there's pie on Thanksgiving, all's right with the world. Or as right as our screwed up lives can get, anyway._ It hurt a little, that his brother clearly thought all could be right in Sam's world without him in it, but he reluctantly conceded that he hadn't given him much reason to think otherwise. And he thought he should give it a try—after all, this was the life he'd wanted, the life he'd fought to get, had given everything to win for himself. So he pulled a plastic fork from his small stash and took a bite, determined to choke it down past the lump in his throat, anticipating the burst of sweetness and the chewy crunchiness of the pecans.

Instead, it tasted bitter and salty, and it was only then that Sam realized he was crying. And he had no doubt that, wherever Dean was tonight—he wasn't eating pie either.


	11. The Stanford Years: The First, Dean

_Thanks to everyone who's voted for my story "Parenting Your Gifted Child" in the SNFA People's Choice Awards. If you haven't checked out the Awards yet, the link is in my profile. There are a ton of fantastic stories that have been nominated. Go read and vote for your favorite._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_The Stanford Years: The First, The Wayfarer Inn_

It was the first Thanksgiving without Sam, and that was how Dean measured everything now…the first hunt without Sam, the first Halloween without Sam—not that they'd ever really celebrated anyway, the first hospital stay without Sam…it was all strangely new without his brother there to share it, and it left Dean feeling unbearably old.

He watched in resignation as his dad left the room they were sharing, presumably heading out to seek relief from the burden his son's company had become. Dean knew it wore on his father, the way he moped around whenever they had downtime, and supposed that was why his dad had been pushing them so hard, going from hunt to hunt with little to no respite between. Truth be told, he was surprised his dad was still around at all, now that Sam was gone. But even his father couldn't deny that Dean was a valuable asset on the job—focused, steady, lethal. After that first screw-up right after Sam had left, Dean had made sure to be all of those things—even more so than usual. If he could just _prove_ to his dad that he wouldn't let him down again—that he could see the mission through, do his job—then maybe his dad would stay. Wouldn't up and take off on him one day like Sam had done.

So he never protested when John went out, disappearing for long hours at a time, and he never asked to go along. He understood that what his dad needed an escape from was _him_. And he could live with that—so long as he came back. Dean tried hard not to think of the looming day when his dad might _not_ return, of the growing probability that one day he would just disappear from Dean's life as quickly as his brother had, as quickly as his mom had so many years before. What would he do then? He would have no one. Dean had never prided himself on introspection—avoided it, when possible—but one thing he did know about himself was that he didn't do _alone_ well.

From the window, he watched as the Impala turned out of the lot and pulled away, his eyes dry as bones and throat burning from all the words he hadn't been saying. Words like _How could you?_ and _This is __**your**__ fault!_ and _I just want my brother back…__**please**_ and _Don't leave me._ Sometimes he thought the words would build up till he choked on them. But he could never give them voice, because the risk was just too great. His dad was all he had left now, and without him Dean would be all alone. Forgotten, discarded…abandoned.

So he gathered everything he needed to pack and dropped down wearily onto the bed. Out of long habit, he fashioned his clothes into the tight rolls his dad had always insisted on before placing them into his open duffel. He was determined to be ready to go when his dad got back.

John had said they'd leave early in the morning for the next town, next hunt. Didn't have anything yet, but they would. They always found _something_. It was one of the few constants in Dean's life—the persistence of evil that needed killing. There used to be another constant too, but Dean tried hard not to think about that. Sometimes he thought his head would explode from all the things he _didn't _think about—Mom dying, Dad constantly taking off, Sam…no, he was not going to go there, even in his thoughts. Wasn't going to pull out his box of memories and wallow in self-pity, however tempting the thought might be. Wasn't going to take out the paper in his wallet and re-read it, reassure himself of his brother's love and affection, like he'd done so many times over the past months. Wasn't going to stare at the photo in there of him and Sam together, laughing—happy—like some emo schoolgirl.

No, Dean Winchester didn't do emo. He would _soldier on_. It was what he did, and what did it matter if he felt hollowed out inside, if he had to concentrate on dragging himself out of bed every morning, if he had to push himself well beyond his limits so that when he fell into bed at night he wouldn't lie awake, thinking about how silent it was without Sam's nighttime movements and quiet exhalations and how big the room seemed without his ginormous brother taking up all the space in it—no, none of that mattered.

And he sure didn't need to look at some friggin' picture to remind himself of all he'd lost—he saw his brother's face every freakin' day. When the gangly kid at the coffee shop tripped over his own two feet while stacking display boxes…when the gap-toothed toddler in the diner dimpled up at him…when the gas station attendant rolled his eyes at something a customer said…when the kid he rescued looked up at him with trusting hazel eyes…when the professor he interviewed used the word "anthropomorphism" in regular conversation…all Dean could see was _Sammy._

They were _all_ Sammy, every last friggin' one of 'em, and yet none of them could give him what he needed. Didn't stop him from seeing Sammy everywhere he turned though, or from hearing his kid brother's voice in his head during a hunt, urging him toward _caution_ and _safety _and_ reason_. Dean sometimes felt like a man haunted, only the person ghosting him wasn't dead and had _chosen_ to go, leaving nothing behind but some tattered too-small sweatpants, his favorite handgun, and a big brother who suddenly had no one to be a big brother _to._

He hadn't heard from Sam in months. Eighty-nine days, to be exact, but who was counting? He knew the kid was okay though—they'd driven out a couple of times already to check Stanford over, make sure Sam was safe and getting settled. Those trips were hard on both of them. Aside from feeling slightly stalkerish, Dean could almost feel his heart ripping as he watched Sam talking with other kids, studying at the library, loping up the steps to the caf. It was beyond painful to be so close to his brother without talking to him. But Sam had made his choice, and Dean had to respect that. And much as it hurt, he also breathed easier after those trips, gut unclenching as he saw with his own eyes that Sammy was okay, living the apple pie life he'd always wanted, normal…happy. In the end, that trumped Dean's desire to drag him home where he belonged.

But he hadn't been able to resist contacting him a couple of times since he'd taken off, hoping against hope that Sam would relent, would rebuild the bridge he'd burned…would give some indication that he missed his big brother as much as Dean missed him.

He'd really hoped Sam would call after getting to school and having a little time to cool off. He'd even called and left him a message, just the once, the night Sam had left for Stanford. He'd deliberately waited until the time difference told him Sam would be asleep, knowing the call would go right to voicemail. It was cowardly maybe, but he hadn't known if his brother would answer the phone if he saw it was Dean calling, and he hadn't wanted to test it. So he'd waited until he was sure Sam would be asleep to leave his message. He'd held his breath for days afterward, hoping it would make Sam see that Dean _wasn't_ their dad, that he didn't need to cut all ties to his family. Hoping beyond hope that Sam would still want to be _brothers_, would call him back. He hadn't. Sometimes Dean was sure that hope, not the supernatural, would be the death of him.

Dean had told himself that would be it. Sam knew his number, knew how to reach him if he needed to, and clearly the kid didn't want to be bothered with any reminders of the life he'd left behind. But as the holiday approached, Dean hadn't been able to stop himself from reaching out one more time. He knew Sam would likely spend Thanksgiving surrounded by his college buddies, chowing down on all the traditional holiday dishes—his first _normal _Thanksgiving. Kid would be in heaven—watching football, stuffing his face, doing whatever it was college geekboys did in their spare time. And even though it hurt that Sam wouldn't be there with him and Dad, Dean could take comfort in the fact that he would be happy. He _sure_ wouldn't be sitting around moping because he missed his pain-in-the-butt brother.

But he hadn't been able to resist contacting him, just the same. So he'd sent him a piece of the pie they'd gotten after the Georgia poltergeist gig. Pecan pie was Sammy's favorite and the old lady had been so eager to do something for them after they'd saved her that Dean hadn't had the heart to turn it down. He'd managed to choke down a couple of bites for her anxious eyes and make appropriate sounds of delight so her feelings wouldn't be hurt. He'd even managed to keep it down until he'd gotten out onto the old country road leading away from her house and had to pull the car over to be sick. He'd been glad he was out of sight of the house by then—how could he have explained that the pie was good, it was the memories that choked?

Later that night, he'd boxed up a piece of the pie to send to Sam and had taken the rest down to the shaggy-haired night clerk at the motel they'd been staying in. He'd known he wasn't going to be eating any pie this Thanksgiving—the very _thought_ of pie made his stomach hurt. But he'd wanted to make sure Sam had some; that Sam knew his brother was thinking of him.

He'd even sent a note with the pie, another overture, hoping this one would elicit some kind of response. He'd torn a page from his journal to scribble it on while standing in line at the post office—he rarely used protection charms anymore anyway. What was the point? There was no one left to protect—his dad could take care of himself.

So Dean sat all by himself on Thanksgiving, getting ready for another hunt in another anonymous town where no one would know him or miss him when he moved on. This was his life now. Empty motel rooms, a mostly-absent father, a too-silent phone. Alone. He was always alone. Even when his dad was there, he was mostly by himself. It left him feeling unbalanced, disoriented. He was like a man who'd turned to find that his shadow—faithful, dependable, always at his back—was gone. _Forever_ and _inexplicably_ gone. It left him feeling strangely adrift, without anchor in a turbulent world…vulnerable.

Duffel packed, Dean sat looking at his cell phone for a long time, overcome with the need to hear his little brother's voice. It felt like if he didn't hear it now, on Thanksgiving, it would sever some final tie; would be the loss of something he couldn't imagine living without, even though he cursed his weakness for needing it. But it was _Sam_. So he eyed the speed dial button he'd been playing with for the last few days—letting his finger linger a little longer on it each time, apply a little more pressure, testing…testing to see how it would feel to call. This night he hit it quickly, before he could lose his nerve or change his mind. And then listened, nervous like he never was before a hunt, waiting as the phone rang and rang and rang.

Finally it went to voicemail, and at the sound of his brother's voice there was an almost painful rush of relief, like he was coming home after a long hard hunt that he hadn't been sure he'd survive. An intense pressure built behind his eyes until they began to sting and burn, as if he'd eaten something too spicy or gotten too near a fire. He didn't dare leave a message because he knew his voice wouldn't come out right, so he listened for long moments, savoring the rhythm of his brother's words, before he gently hung up the phone. He sat holding it in his hand, replaying the message in his mind over and over, listening intently for any sound that Sam wasn't out there happy, healthy, living the life he'd always dreamed of. There wasn't any, so he put his phone away, scrubbed his face with one hand, and pulled out the weapons duffel. Everything needed to be cleaned before they left for the next hunt, and there was no time like the present.

************************************************************

That first Thanksgiving without Sam, John made an effort. He was a hunter, a trained observer, and it sure hadn't escaped his notice that his oldest son had been a bit…_off_…the past couple of months, since Sam had walked out. They both knew he wasn't coming back. Dean had gotten worse as the holiday approached, though he never said anything—just got more and more morose, glancing at his cell phone more often, looking hopeful every time it rang and defeated every time he hung up.

It was more than John could bear, so he'd taken to finding them more and more jobs, hoping to give Dean something to focus on that would keep him from thinking so much. Working a job, Dean was determined, purposeful, _solid,_ and John could fool himself into thinking his boy was okay. That first hunt after Sam had left had been bad—_very_ bad and nearly disastrous—but after that Dean had pulled himself together, and now he attacked each hunt as if it might be his last. Granted, he was a little more reckless than usual, and his single-minded intensity and determination to save everyone he encountered made John's heart ache and left him weary to the bone. But the aftermath of the hunt—the downtime—was so much worse. John had started going out for hours at a time, unable to bear the oppressive weight of Dean's grief and silence any longer. Dean was paying the price for John's mistake and he hated himself for that as much as anything. But he didn't know how to help either of them, and he couldn't stand to see his boy drowning and lost, so he did what he did best—he focused on the hunt, on keeping them all _alive,_ and told himself that it would all be over soon, that _this_ would be the year they caught up to Mary's killer.

But sometimes he felt like he was drowning himself, trapped in a storm of emotions he wasn't equipped to deal with. The guilt and regret were suffocating, because he knew this whole situation was his own fault. He'd panicked at the idea of Sammy leaving, scared out of his mind at the idea of his baby boy out there alone in the world—vulnerable, defenseless—and he'd let his fear push him into intimidation and ultimatums that he should've known would never work. Sam was _his_ son, after all, and just as stubborn and unwilling to be intimidated as John himself. But what was done was done, and there was no undoing it. Sam had left for the life he wanted, forcing his family to carry on without him, and however much it hurt, however much John missed his youngest son, however much he might wish he could redo that day, he knew it wasn't possible, so he didn't bother to try.

But Dean…Dean had already lost so much, and his behavior since Sam had left reminded John uneasily of those first few months after Mary had passed. Dean was too quiet and he barely ate and his eyes held too much loss for John to fool himself that Sam might grow out of this, might come back to them. Dean was in mourning. And John felt helpless to comfort him, and angry at Sam for deserting, and disgusted with himself for pushing, and betrayed that his son could cut them out of his life so easily, and furious that Sam just couldn't _do_ what he was _told, _and achingly regretful at the way he'd handled things, and devastated as his small family seemed to dwindle even further, and a little scared that he was going to lose Dean too if he didn't snap out of this funk he was in.

So, much as John hated to celebrate Thanksgiving, he found he couldn't turn a blind eye to his son's pain today, couldn't pretend everything was okay. Not today. Dean rarely asked for anything for himself, and John was powerless to give him the one thing he really wanted—his brother back—but the Thanksgiving thing? That he could manage.

He cut his night of pool sharking short, just playing long enough to get them funds to move on to the next town, and headed back early to the motel. On the way, he made a point to stop by the mini-mart down the street and pick up some frozen turkey pot pies. It was the best he could do on such short notice. He splurged and bought a huge bag of peanut M&M's for dessert.

Dean looked so surprised when he returned with the holiday fare that John felt guilt rise up and gnaw at his gut once more. He determinedly put it behind him and set about making the holiday slightly-less-depressing for his son. He couldn't make up for Sammy not being there, he knew that, but he _could_ show Dean that they were still a family, that he mattered to someone other than just Sam. It was something John didn't show his boy often enough, but he would today.

While the dinners cooked in the microwave, John helped Dean finish cleaning the weapons and re-pack everything in the duffel. They didn't talk much—Dean still didn't seem to have much to say—but he seemed to draw comfort from the familiar task and it soothed the silence between them into one of easy familiarity, instead of the strained silence that exists when there's too much to say and not enough words to say it with.

Later, John watched in satisfaction as his son ate the whole frozen dinner he'd fixed—the most he'd seen him eat in weeks—though John got the distinct feeling Dean was doing it more for him than out of an actual desire for food or pleasure in the taste. Still, it was something.

After dinner, they broke out the peanut M&M's and watched _Ernest Goes to Camp_ on the old TV set in the room. It was a movie that the boys, at least, had seen dozens of times over the years, and John could well remember the huge guffaws that had always accompanied such viewings. He'd never taken the time to sit down and watch it with them, though he'd always meant to. There had always been something more pressing to do, some clue to follow up on, some hunt to research. He wished now that he'd taken the time to do it sooner, when _both_ of his boys had been there to share it with, and worried that it might raise memories for Dean that would just make this day harder than it already was.

But Dean just watched quietly, occasionally tilting his head and smirking—as if hearing an internal dialogue John wasn't privy to—and by the time they reached the part with the exploding toilet, he even gave a small snicker, surprising both of them. John allowed himself a moment of relief. Dean was going to be okay. They both would be. They would get through this the same way they had everything else life had thrown at them—together. John was satisfied that it was the most he could hope for and infinitely more than he deserved.

************************************************************

_In case anyone is wondering, the paper in his wallet that Dean refers to is the one Sammy gives him in my story "Just Like My Big Brother".  
_


	12. The Stanford Years: The Last, Sam

_I know that many of you, like me, normally avoid Stanford fics. I really appreciate those of you who have stuck with this story and continued to read and review these chapters where the boys aren't together. The next two chapters will cover Sam's final year at Stanford, this one showing Sam's POV and the next one showing Dean's. After that, the boys will be reunited—never fear, lots more brotherly interaction is in store! _

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_The Stanford Years: The Last, Moore Residence_

It was the Thanksgiving Sam had always dreamed of, right out of a TV special. A large family gathered around a table that groaned under the weight of the bounty piled atop it. A beautiful woman who loved him at his side. A table set with gleaming china and glassware, linen napkins, candles, and an elegant centerpiece. A warm home, laughter, sweet smells.

And it was great, it _was._ Everything he'd ever thought he wanted…but there was something missing. Something that left an emptiness inside him that grew like a black hole as dinner progressed, consuming every bit of happiness he should have felt in its wake.

Though he and Jess had only been together six months, Sam loved her already. She was perfect for him, and he knew—in that way you just _know_ sometimes—that she was The One. Maybe when the lease on his apartment was up in the spring, they'd even get a place of their own. They were always together anyway, at her place or his. Right from the beginning, they'd just _fit_.

So Sam tried to push the emptiness aside, to _soldier on_. Because Jess…she really was wonderful. And her family was great…warm, loving, accepting. And this…this was normal. A _normal_ Thanksgiving and it was what he'd always imagined it would be, with laughter and conversation and inside jokes, and it was perfect—friggin' _perfect_—and what was _wrong_ with him that it just wasn't _enough_?

But when he looked at the elegant centerpiece, constructed of candles and fall leaves, pine cones and acorns, all he could see was an art-class turkey sculpture that had been given a place of honor because he had made it himself. And when he looked across the shining mahogany table, there was no brother with an impish smile, no bright green eyes that shone with pride and unconditional love. And Sam felt an ache so deep it seemed to pierce through bone and marrow to steal his breath.

And when Jess's mom asked them to go around the table and tell something they were each thankful for, Sam's throat closed up entirely until he was sure he was suffocating and he knew he wouldn't be able to speak when his turn came; so he grabbed Jess's hand and squeezed _hard_ and when she looked at him in surprise, he shook his head minutely and she saw the desperation in his eyes and loudly asked him to go get the bag she'd left out in the car because she needed it _right now;_ and even though her mother gave her a baffled, scolding look, Sam escaped out into the cold night air with a sigh of relief. He just stood on the porch for a long minute, gasping for breath and willing back tears and looking up at the hard and distant stars, wondering where in this large country his brother was spending Thanksgiving, and if he was alone, if he was okay, if he was looking at the same stars Sam could see blurring through his tears.

He could tell from her confused gaze that Jess hadn't understood why he'd needed to leave, but Sam knew—just _knew_—that he couldn't have sat there and listened to everyone sharing what they were thankful for. That was his one Thanksgiving memory of his mom—and a third-hand one at that—and he just couldn't have it replaced with the memory of strangers, even ones as nice as these.

So he went to the car to get Jess's bag and he stood there in the drive for a moment, just watching the happy family he could see through the bay window in the dining room. Glittering light spilled out into the frigid, dark night and the sounds of tinkling silverware and warm laughter seeped from the house like heat into cold bones. It drew him as much as it repelled him. He wondered if he would always feel like this—an outsider looking in, even when he was an invited guest. Wondered if his life with Jess would ever feel _real_ and not a dream he was scared to wake from.

And then he thought of a cozy diner out in the middle of nowhere, classic rock playing on the jukebox and his dad and brother's voices rough with fatigue and cold, but filled with laughter and affection and the satisfaction of a job well-done. Thought of homemade pumpkin pie—at once both savory and sweet, delicate crust seeming to melt on the tongue—eaten in a red vinyl booth and steaming aromatic coffee warming their insides; of being frosty and tired but bone-deep content, knowing that the day's work had been _important_—had helped people, maybe even saved lives. He held still, hardly breathing, and thought of that moment flash-frozen in time when he'd been able to just be himself—no secrets, no dark past to try and hide. Just _Sam,_ his whole world in one small room, all of them sitting and enjoying each other and the simple pleasures of a life on the road.

When he looked down, his cell phone was in his hand and he stared at it for a long minute…then two…then three…willing it to ring. _Needing_ it to ring as much as he needed to draw air. Tonight he was weak—he would answer if it did. A large part of him hoped that it would. _Prayed _that it would. Making the deal with himself, with God, that if it rang, he would answer.

Because much as he yearned to talk to his brother, he couldn't be the one to call—couldn't chance that it would be seen as regret or a desire to return to that life. He liked his life _now_ and he didn't want to go back. He just wished with an aching sorrow that he'd brought some of that life forward with him. That the two could merge, just a little.

In the interminable years he'd been gone, Sam had gotten pretty good at putting that life out of his mind, not dwelling on what—who—he'd left behind. Survival had dictated it. But on those rare nights like tonight, when memories threatened to drown him at every turn, he wished things could've been different. Wished there was some way to merge his two lives. To merge the two halves of _himself_. He had rejected the life he'd been raised in, and yet…he was the only one in his new life who knew about the things that lurked out there in the dark. It set him apart, made him different. Made him _feel _different, never quite fit in, never quite _belong_. So he did his best to forget what was out there, to forget the things he'd seen, to just be _College Sam_ and not _Sam the Hunter._ Sometimes he felt like this new life was a play he was starring in, in hopes that if he pretended long enough and hard enough it would become real and that other life would be the dream that faded upon waking.

In some ways he felt like he was in limbo, stuck between the shadowy past and the too-bright future. The present was murky in ways he couldn't explain and inexplicably lonely. Some days all he wanted was a few minutes where he didn't have to hide away or try to forget part of himself. Where he could talk openly about whatever came into his mind without always having to guard against saying too much. An hour or two of complete, unrestrained honesty, with _anyone_. Better yet, a few minutes with his brother, to ease the empty spots his absence had left behind.

But it was easier now that he had Jess. She filled a lot of the empty places inside him. And if she didn't fill them all—well, that was the choice Sam had made and he just had to deal with it as best he could. Maybe over time—a lot more time—those empty places would fill with _work_ and _law school_ and _marriage_ and _kids_ until there was only a small, hidden part of his soul that screamed out for the brother who'd been everything—friend, family, teacher, protector—for as long as he'd been alive. Already its shrieking was less than when he'd first left and Sam knew that if he just continued to ignore it, eventually it would die down completely. That was his hope anyway. Until then—there was school, and Jess, and that more than made up for any murkiness. All except on nights like tonight when all he wanted was a little clarity, a little bit of _home_ that he could cling to.

Sam didn't know how long he stood in the driveway clutching his cell phone in chilled white fingers, gazing at the festivities inside and feeling _so old_ and _alone_ in ways he'd never been before leaving home, until the front door opened and Jess's head poked out, wavy blond hair stirring in the slight breeze. Seeing him standing there with her bag on his shoulder and the cell in his hand, she stepped out onto the porch and looked at him with blue eyes wide with concern. The breeze blew again, more strongly this time, causing her to shiver in her thin black holiday dress.

With a last glance at it, Sam shoved the too-quiet phone in his pocket and quickly went to meet her on the porch.

She watched him approach, eyes studying him as if the right detail would tell her what was wrong. "Everything okay, baby?" she asked, worried.

Sam flashed his dimples at her and if the smile he gave her didn't go all the way to his eyes, she was perceptive enough not to comment on it just then, perhaps sensing he was teetering on an edge he couldn't afford to go over. "Yeah, it's fine. Let's get back inside, you must be freezing." He wrapped his arm around her and guided her back in, banishing thoughts of family from his mind as firmly as any ghost.

But when the dishes were all cleared and they brought out dessert, Sam was quick to shake his head at the offer of pie, claiming to be full. He thought of his first year at school, of pie that had burned like betrayal in his gut. Much as he might like to pretend otherwise, all was _not_ right in his world. No way he could sit there on Thanksgiving and eat pie. Not without his brother. It would have been a deception even he couldn't stomach.


	13. The Stanford Years: The Last, Dean

_Sorry for the wait on this, the site was down when I tried to post last weekend. But since I had extra time, I messed around with it some more and it ended up being twice as long as it had been, so hopefully that makes up for not having an update last week. And not to worry, in the next chapter the boys are back together. _

_Voting's about to close for the fanfic version of the People's Choice Awards. The link is in my profile—if you haven't already, go look at all the great fics and vote for your favorite!_

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_The Stanford Years: The Last, Route 42_

After that first Thanksgiving without Sam, they didn't try again. This year, Dean spent Thanksgiving alone, his dad off on a hunt somewhere. He'd passed the days leading up to it saving a kid from some _thing_ intent on feeding off him. It'd taken Dean several nerve-wracking days to pinpoint the type of supernatural he'd been dealing with and gather what he'd needed to take it out, then track the creature back to its lair in the woods and rescue the little boy. Luckily, no permanent damage had been done to the child—physically at least—and the creature kept its intended meals in stasis until it was ready for them, so there was no reason to think the kid would even remember the days he'd spent as its prisoner. Small mercies. Sometimes they were all Dean's life afforded.

The parents were old friends of Pastor Jim's from when he'd gone to seminary nearby. Dean had brought the boy home just as the sun was rising and it had quickly become a scene of happy chaos with parents, older sister, and family dog all vying to get close to the boy and show their affection and relief at having him back home. Dean had assured them that the creature wouldn't hurt anyone ever again and tried his best to deflect the effusive thanks they kept throwing his way in between hugging the boy and checking him over for injuries. He'd watched the scene play out with a small pang as the boy's mother had tenderly smoothed his hair down and held him close to her, murmuring reassurances. Dean had tried hard not to think about his own mom, or the lifetime that had passed since he'd been held and loved like that.

Once the boy's mother had calmed both of them down and had assured herself that her son was safe and unharmed, she'd invited Dean to Thanksgiving dinner as the guest of honor. It was the least they could do, she'd asserted, after all he'd given them back. It was only then that Dean had realized the holiday had crept up on him like a ghost in the fog, taking him unawares.

He'd mumbled some excuse and beat a hasty retreat, unable to watch the tear-filled reunion as they'd rejoiced over the son—the brother—who'd been returned to them. He was happy for them and felt the satisfaction of a job well-done—he'd made a difference here; had saved a life, saved a _family_—but he couldn't bear to watch because it reminded him all too much of the family he hadn't been able to save…his own. He hadn't been able to save his mom all those years ago and, in the end, he hadn't been able to keep his family from unraveling. Hadn't been able to stop Sam and Dad from creating a rift that couldn't be breached. And seeing that family's joy had just been another bitter reminder of the reunion his family wouldn't be having this Thanksgiving. Of the son—brother—that seemed lost to them for good. Dean supposed it was ironic that his brother had been lost to _normalcy,_ rather than the supernatural. At least he had the comfort of knowing that Sam was out there somewhere, alive and happy, and just wanted nothing to do with them. If you could call that comfort.

So Dean had made his apologies and declined their invitation, choosing instead to spend the day hustling pool and watching football in some out-of-the-way place that was open despite the holiday. But in the end, it made him lonelier to spend Thanksgiving surrounded by people he didn't know and who didn't know him than to spend it alone with his memories, so he called it a day and headed back to the motel early. He filled the time by stripping and cleaning every weapon he had with him—some of them twice—and sharpening his already-razor-sharp knife on the whetstone from the weapons bag. The familiarity of the ritual comforted him and left him feeling almost peaceful. When he was done, he re-packed everything so he'd be ready to head out first thing in the morning, but found he still had too much time on his hands, so he cleaned out the Impala and organized the trunk. That didn't take nearly long enough, and he couldn't help but note how much larger the trunk seemed when there weren't other duffels vying with his for the limited space.

He thought about just hitting the road, driving on to the next town, and any other time he would've done just that, even though he was jittery and wired from the hunt he'd just finished and the sleepless nights and knew he wouldn't make it far before he crashed. Problem was, he had an appointment the next day with another contact of Pastor Jim's. There was an artifact he wanted Dean to pick up and bring out the next time he swung by because he didn't trust it to the mail. Dean knew it was important or Pastor Jim wouldn't have asked, so he'd promised he'd take care of it. Which left him stuck here for another night, with way too much time on his hands, and could this friggin' day _get_ any longer?

He thought about calling his dad, but John had been increasingly hard to get a hold of lately, not always calling back right away—or at all—and he'd been especially secretive about his current gig. Same old need-to-know crap Dean had been dealing with his whole life, so he tried not to take it too personally.

He briefly considered calling Sam, even going so far as to pull out his cell phone and stare at it for several long minutes, as if it might ring if he just concentrated hard enough. But deep inside he knew it wouldn't. Just like he knew there was no point in pressing the speed dial button his finger itched to push. Sam didn't need him, not anymore, and especially not today. His life was full of _work_ and _school_ and _dating_ and _normal,_ and there was no place in it anymore for his big brother to fill.

Dean had gone by Stanford right after Halloween, just to check on Sammy and make sure everything was okay. He'd managed to get close enough to where Sam had been sitting outside with a buddy to overhear him saying that he was going to spend Thanksgiving with his girlfriend's family. He guessed that was fitting; Sam was moving on, building a life for himself, but the idea of him joining another family…it left shards in Dean's soul.

When Sammy had been five, they'd had an apartment for a while in a small town. Dean had walked him home every day after school to the neighborhood nearby where they'd lived. They passed lots of houses on the way and Dean had watched the families inside—moms welcoming their children home from school with big hugs, or setting out cookies for a snack, or helping with homework; sometimes dads outside, playing catch with their kids or teaching them to ride a bike—and he'd wondered what it would be like to have that. He knew he'd had it once, but when he tried to capture the memories, they slipped through his fingers like tears and dissolved. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't hold onto them tight enough. So he gripped Sammy's small hand tighter as they walked—Sammy, who'd never had that life long enough to form slippery tear-memories in the first place—and when they got back to the place they were calling home that week, Dean would slip his little brother the cookies he'd saved from his lunch, or a snack-bag of pretzels, and offer to help him with his soccer moves or his spelling words.

But thinking of Sammy enjoying Thanksgiving dinner at one of _those_ houses, sitting inside eating turkey and pie, and part of _someone else's_ family…it made Dean feel like that nine-year-old kid again, outside in the cold looking in at other people's happiness. Always on the outside.

He was happy for Sammy, he _was_. If anyone deserved that taste of normal, it was his kid brother. And if that's what it took for Sam to be happy, Dean would've moved Heaven and Earth himself to get it for him. But it also left him feeling _twisted_ and _broken_ in ways he couldn't explain and didn't dare dwell on.

Dean had thought—_really_ _thought_—he'd adjusted to life without his little brother. Well, as much as possible, anyway. Didn't mean it didn't hurt, because not a day went by that he didn't feel the loss of Sam. But he was used to living with loss—had learned that lesson the day they'd buried his mother's empty coffin—so he pushed it down, stuffed it _deep_, and _soldiered on_. It was what he did. All he knew how to do. But he'd been so caught off-guard that day hearing Sam's holiday plans that he'd been unable to breathe for a long minute while jagged pain lanced through him so deep it seemed to tear through bone and marrow.

He'd been literally frozen in place and had almost been caught as Sam's hunter instincts had belatedly kicked in and brought his head up, as though he'd sensed someone watching him. Dean had known Sam couldn't see him from where he was sitting—their dad hadn't trained him in covert recon for nothing—but he'd still tensed as Sam had looked around suspiciously before he'd seemed to conclude he was just being paranoid. Once his attention had been diverted, Dean had made his way back to the Impala, steps heavy and uncertain and completely without his usual grace, as if he'd aged fifty years in fifteen minutes.

He'd driven around for two—maybe three—days after that last visit to Stanford, not going anywhere really, just driving aimlessly…a ship without a port. Adrift. Lost. He couldn't say for sure whether or not he'd even stopped to eat or sleep, though he had at least filled up the Impala's tank whenever it'd neared empty. Other than that, he could've been driving in circles for all the attention he'd paid.

He'd finally snapped out of it when his dad had called with a job he'd wanted an extra set of hands on. They'd met up, taken care of business, and then his dad had been off again before Dean even had a chance to adjust to the fact that he'd been there at all. He'd offered to help with whatever his dad had lined up next but John had been his usual cryptic self, saying he'd call in a week or so to check in. And then Dean had been alone again. And he was _so tired_ of being by himself in a too-big car and too-empty motel rooms and too-frequent one-man hunts. The whole world seemed to have tripled in size with his family gone and it left him feeling small and insignificant and unbearably exposed.

By the time the sun went down, he'd run out of things to do to keep himself occupied and had exhausted his nonexistent attention span for reruns and holiday specials. He stood alone in his motel room, too tired to eat and too lonely to sleep and too broken to seek out company. Dean knew if he could just_ keep moving,_ it would hold the memories at bay. The problem was, he was just so _tired_. Not just physically, though there was that. But more than that, he was weary to the bone—of _everything_…of his own company…of driving from place to place alone—_always_ alone…of the hunt…of his _life_. And he felt so worn out, so worn_ down_, that he couldn't seem to find the energy to do anything but sink onto the lumpy bed and let his head fall back against the headboard.

Idly, he wondered how early in the morning he could show up at the guy's house without getting shot for waking him up and whether there was any chance of getting some shut-eye before morning. If he believed in God, he would've prayed for sleep because even his walls had deserted him and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold it together.

Against his will, his thoughts turned to a seven-year-old Sammy with too-bright hazel eyes and deep dimples holding up a homemade turkey sculpture, eager for his big brother's approval. He thought of potluck pies and Thanksgiving sodas and pumpkin pie shakes and napkin notes—_I'm thankful for __you__. Jerk._—and a holiday meal eaten at a scarred wooden table with Sammy in too-small Scooby Doo pajamas. He thought of his mom's Thanksgiving tradition, of pie and memories shared with his little brother in a hospital cafeteria, of eating M&Ms while watching movies in a crappy motel room with his dad. Thought of a small diner in the middle of nowhere that was the closest thing he could remember to a happy family holiday.

Dean closed his eyes for a minute—just _one_ _minute_—and felt again the beat of classic rock vibrating through vinyl seats and scuffed linoleum, the rumble of excitement in Sam's voice as he'd talked about his latest school project, the off-beat humming his dad always did when a particular song caught his ear. He could almost smell the scent of fresh pumpkin pie topped with real whipped cream and hot, dark coffee that scalded its way down your throat and warmed you from the inside out. Remembered reveling in the bone-deep satisfaction that came from knowing the day's work had been important, had _mattered;_ that they'd done the job—_saving people, hunting things_—and done it well. Recalled soaking in the contentment of just being with Sam and his dad, his whole world in one small room, all of them relaxing for once, just enjoying each other's company and the simple pleasures of life on the road. He heard once more the sound of his family's laughter, the clinking of glasses and rattle of silverware as the busboy cleared the table next to them, the jingle of change as someone left their tip. They were the scents, the sounds, of home—of _love_ and _belonging_ and _family_.

He allowed the warmth of that moment to wash over him. It was a moment he'd been careful to memorize, knowing that it wouldn't last; that he'd end up here, alone, one day in the not-too-distant future. But at least _this_ memory he'd hung on to, and Dean felt a strange sort of pride in himself for the accomplishment. The memory was crystal clear, vivid, detailed. It wouldn't slip through his fingers like all the others. No, this one he wouldn't lose. So he allowed himself just the one minute with it, to get warm again, before he carefully stored it away against future use.

He forced his eyes open with a ragged sigh, cleared his throat to try and rid it of the obstruction there, and scrubbed his face with one hand. He was glad that no one had been around to see his moment of weakness. But surely even he was allowed one every once in a while, right? It _was_ Thanksgiving, after all. It's not like it mattered anyway—there was no one around to be strong for anymore. He swallowed hard against the prickling in his throat and reminded himself that this wasn't some freakin' Lifetime movie. No amount of yapping about his feelings or crying into his coffee—or whatever other emo thing Sam had always urged him to do—was going to change anything. This was life. It was what it was, no changing it. You just learned to suck it up and _keep moving_.

But Dean knew he was teetering on an edge he couldn't afford to go over, because there was no one there to pull him back. He had to escape that room, those memories—get away, _anywhere_ away. He couldn't bear the thought of being with strangers—seemed that's all he ever saw anymore, strangers everywhere he went, and he yearned for something, _someone,_ familiar and known; someone who knew _him_—so he hopped in the Impala and cranked his music up _loud_ and put the windows down and just drove until he lost himself on dark country roads.

Then he pulled off to the side, grabbed a few things he'd stashed in the car earlier, and climbed up on the car's hood, laying back against her windshield to look up at the stars in the cold, clear night sky. The road, the Impala, and the stars—they were the only constants in his life now. He tried not to be hurt by that.

A night breeze blew and he shivered deeper into his leather jacket, feeling the cold seep into his marrow. He sipped a drink that didn't satisfy his thirst and ate some peanut M&M's that didn't satisfy his hunger and counted the stars as they came out, one by one. Dad had taught them to navigate by the stars and Dean found himself wishing that their light, which had always been so reliable when he'd needed to find his way through shadowy forests and dark deserts and lonely back roads, would show him how to get somewhere he could belong. Where he was _needed._

None of his family seemed to need him anymore, not like he needed them. His mother, at least, hadn't chosen to take off, but she was nonetheless as gone as the others. They'd always lived rootless, but until Sam had left, he'd never felt _adrift_. Now all he wanted was to find a way home. Trouble was, Dean didn't seem to have a home anymore, and the people he belonged with were as far beyond his reach as the stars themselves.

So he lay there on the hood of the only home he had left to him now, and he picked out the constellations, remembering how he'd taught them to Sammy on faraway nights in nameless towns; and if he didn't look around, if he just stared hard enough at the stars—with the Impala warm beneath him and the windshield solid behind him, almost like an embrace—if he just sat still enough, he could almost remember the feel of Sammy sitting next to him, shoulder pressed against his as they picked out the constellations together. Could almost make himself believe his brother was there with him again; that he wasn't all alone, left behind by everyone he loved as they all went on to places he couldn't follow.


	14. 2005: Sleep EZ Motel

_I'm posting this a little earlier than my normal update time, since I wasn't able to update last week. I'm really sorry about that. I've been having major technical issues this week, from loss of internet connection to errors when I try to use the document manager to my ISP deciding to block this site entirely (so I can access anything online except for the one site I need to). Frankly, I suspect possession. I'm just trying to decide who to go after with my holy water. LOL _

_All of that also means I'm really behind on responses to the lovely reviews you've all left. I will answer all of them, I promise. On the bright side, all of that extra time to work on the chapter means it ended up being twice as long as normal, so I hope that makes up for the wait. Thanks for your patience. The boys are back together…enjoy!_

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_2005: Sleep EZ Motel_

"C'mon, Sammy, up 'n at 'em." Dean swatted his brother's lower leg through the thin motel coverlet he was using as a blanket. He glanced at his watch for probably the dozenth time in the past hour. It was well past afternoon and starting to head into early evening, and Dean was beginning to get seriously unnerved by his little brother's quiet stillness.

Sam felt he should protest the nickname, but that would require too much effort. He was tired. _So_ tired. It seemed to take all of his energy just to twist his torso so he could squint up at his brother. "Lead on Dad?" he asked hopefully as he searched his brother's face for clues. Maybe Dean had managed to come up with something while he was out. It was a slim hope, but it was all Sam had.

Dean winced at the question, wishing he had another answer to give. Sam had been so driven lately. Finding Dad—and by extension a lead on Jessica's killer—was all he could think about. Dean knew the lack of progress was wearing on him. "Naw, man. Not since this morning,"—_the last time Sam had asked_—"but listen, dude, it's Thanksgiving. C'mon, get up and I'll treat ya to a big dinner. You been layin' there all day."

Dean was worried and he didn't bother to try and hide it. It wasn't like Sam to spend so much time in bed. Well, moping and brooding—yeah, that was Sam's style, but _this_…this went beyond that. Kid had barely twitched all day, just lay there curled on his side. Dean had known he was awake—Sam hadn't slept more than an hour or two at a stretch in weeks because of nightmares and lately he'd stopped trying to get even that. It reminded Dean all too vividly of how Sam had acted the week they'd spent at Stanford after Jessica's death. Which hadn't been all that long ago—certainly not long enough to welcome a reminder.

"Lemme 'lone," Sam grumbled, flopping back onto his side.

"Sorry, kiddo, no can do," Dean's tone was vaguely regretful. He was sympathetic, he _was_. He'd let Sam lay there most of the day already, knowing he might need the time to process and remember Jessica. They had nowhere pressing to be so Dean had deliberately slept in himself, then had indulged in an extra-long shower before he walked, rather than drove, the couple of blocks to the mini-mart to get coffee and breakfast—jelly-filled donuts for him, a multi-grain bagel for Sam. He'd taken his time at the small store—seeing what else they might need, chatting up the pretty young cashier—trying to give Sam some space.

When he'd come back, Sam had still been unmoving. He'd been tempted to check the kid's vitals, but his offer of coffee and breakfast had eventually elicited a soft rebuttal, so he'd spared Sam that indignity. Dean understood the kid probably needed some time to think and try to come to terms with everything that had happened. They'd been going nearly nonstop since the fire—searching for clues in Stanford, tying up the loose ends of Sam's life there so they could hit the road, looking for Dad, working cases—and the way he saw it, Thanksgiving had to be especially hard for Sammy this year. After all, this time last year he'd been with Jessica's family, celebrating the holiday and looking forward to the future. That had to hurt.

So he'd tried to give Sam the space he needed to grieve all that he'd lost. He'd busied himself with re-stocking the first aid kit with the supplies he'd picked up at the mini-mart, then cleaning all of the weapons and re-packing them in the duffel, and finally taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to change the oil in the Impala. All the while periodically checking on his brother in the guise of coming in to go to the bathroom or throw away the old oil filter or grab a tool he'd forgotten to take out with him, letting Sammy know he was there if he needed him.

He'd even sat out in the car for a little while going through the box of fake IDs to see what other credentials might come in handy in the future. He'd decided the next big job they got, Homeland Security was _definitely_ the way to go. He'd picked up a couple of the silver shields a while back and had been itching to try them out. He just had to find a full-service print shop so he could make the corresponding photo IDs and they'd be in business. He was actually pretty excited about the idea—it'd been a while since he'd had a good challenge for his forgery skills. Had to keep 'em sharp.

So while he'd been giving Sam time, he'd studied the picture he'd downloaded of what the new photo IDs should look like and rummaged around in his supplies until he'd found pictures of him and Sam that would do the trick. Then he'd bundled everything together and stuck it back in the glove box, deciding that would have to be long enough for Sam's alone time. He was going friggin' crazy out there—not to mention he was starving. He'd eventually resorted to eating Sam's disgustingly healthy bagel a couple hours earlier, when it had become clear the kid wouldn't be interested in getting lunch anytime soon. But one bagel—no matter how grainy—and the old bag of stale Cheetos he'd found when going through the glove box hadn't held him for long and he was convinced he would gnaw off his own arm if he didn't get something to eat soon.

Logically, Dean knew he could've gone on ahead and gotten lunch without Sam, but he didn't want to be too far away with Sammy in a funk like he was. Besides, he didn't like leaving the kid alone for too long. It made his skin itch. He could've lost Sammy in that fire, nearly had. No, until they caught up to Dad, found out what was going on, he was going to keep a very close eye on his little brother. No way was it a coincidence that twice now Sammy's bedroom had gone up in flames with him in it. And he was sure that, with that big ol' brain of his, Sam had figured that out, too.

Which was exactly why Dean was trying to get him up now. His internal Sammyometer told him the kid was on the verge of passing from healthy grieving and reminiscing to depression and self-blame. Truthfully, he was surprised it had taken this long. So he ignored Sam's half-hearted protests and harassed, threatened, and cajoled—not necessarily in that order—his little brother into getting out of bed, taking a shower and putting on clean clothes, and going out with him for some food.

They drove to the diner without speaking, the sound of Metallica's _Nothing Else Matters _playing on the stereo and the Impala's distinctive throaty rumble—the soundtrack of their lives—the only thing to encroach on the deep silence. Dean sang along softly to all of his favorite parts of the song, humming quietly and nodding his head to the beat during the rest. _"So close, no matter how far. Couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trusting who we are. And nothing else matters…Life is ours; we live it our way…Trust I seek and I find in you. Every day, for us, something new…And nothing else matters…Forever trusting who we are. No, nothing else matters." _As he sang, Dean willed his little brother to hear the truth of the words he'd taught him to sing when they were just kids and Sammy had been scared of the dark or nervous about Dad being gone on a hunt. He couldn't tell if Sam was even listening now; he just sat staring out the window, unmoving.

They entered the diner to the tinkling of the bells on the door and settled into the nearest empty booth. The robin's-egg blue vinyl seats squeaked a little as they situated themselves, but the place was clean and not too crowded, so Dean happily grabbed up a menu to study. Sam just looked half-heartedly at the menu his brother shoved at him and didn't seem to care about food at all, so Dean ordered for both of them—turkey and dressing and the works—hoping Sammy's appetite would be tempted by something on his plate.

When the food came, Dean automatically raked all of the green beans and white meat from his plate onto his little brother's and took the dark meat—which Sammy hated—and most of his stuffing in return. How anyone could prefer extra green beans to stuffing, he would _never_ understand. But as he drowned his stuffing in gravy and took a huge bite, Dean had to admit it was handy sometimes, having a health food freak for a brother.

He watched as Sam absently played with his small mound of mashed potatoes—flattening them with his fork, then building them up again into a small hill—and shook his head with a fond smile. Some things never changed.

Others did though, and in the end, Sam mostly picked at his food and pushed it around on his plate, though Dean noted with a smug smile that he _did_ eat all of the green beans—the big freak. At least he'd eaten _something_ though—Dean had learned to take what he could get.

He tried his best to make conversation while they ate, to lighten the mood a little with funny stories from when they were kids or tidbits about hunts Sam had missed out on while he was at Stanford. Sam was still too quiet, but he did eventually start to smile and even laughed when Dean related a particularly embarrassing incident that had happened to their dad on a hunt the year before. Dean couldn't help but beam at the sound of Sam's soft laughter. He hadn't heard it nearly enough since they'd been back on the road together, and he'd missed it. It brought back dozens of memories, of long summer days when they were kids with too much time on their hands and prank wars and a ticklish chubby-legged toddler with big hazel eyes and floppy too-long hair.

The waitress came over to check on them and Sam pushed his plate away and excused himself to go to the bathroom. Dean watched his little brother shuffle off in that direction before turning a charming smile on the tired middle-aged woman who was telling him about their dessert offerings. He would give Sammy fifteen minutes and if he wasn't out, he was going in after him.

************************************************************

Sam took his time in the bathroom. The food and conversation had managed to lift his spirits a little and he shook his head, smiling fondly as he thought of the story Dean had been telling. Only his brother could make him laugh, even on the worst of days. He didn't know how Dean did that, how he always seemed to know how to make Sam feel better, but he was thankful for it all the same. He'd really missed that when he'd been gone.

He washed his hands and stood for a moment, just looking at himself in the mirror. He could see why Dean was worried—he had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, he'd lost weight over the past few weeks, and he was too pale. Sam sighed and cupped cold water in his hands to splash on his face, hoping it would help somehow. Or at least snap him out of the fog he'd been lost in all day.

He was glad his brother had made him get up and come out to eat. If Dean hadn't nagged and harassed him, he'd have been content to lie in bed the whole day. Not that he'd been sleeping—oh no, even that escape was denied him now—no, he'd been thinking about Jess. Remembering the day they'd first met…their first date…the first time he'd told her he loved her. Reliving his all-too-brief life with her as he'd lain in bed, too weary from pain and too numb from grief to move or even to cry. Several times he'd had to check and make sure he'd remembered to breathe. It was all so much effort now.

He'd woken this morning from his now-customary hour or two of sleep a night, and he must've been dreaming of Jess—good dreams for once, dreams he'd longed to crawl back into, if he'd only known how—because he'd immediately been awash in memories of the life they'd had.

Sam had been trying hard to hold those memories at bay over the past few weeks, to push them away until he was sure they wouldn't swamp him and pull him down and hold him under until he stopped breathing entirely. But they had crept up on him when he was at his most vulnerable, half-asleep and half-awake, and once unleashed they'd consumed him, feeding on his love and longing, until they'd become an unstoppable tidal wave of emotion.

He'd remembered long summer days at the beach followed by sticky summer nights…and chilly autumn evenings on the quad…and moonlight kisses…and silly moments they'd spent just goofing off…and how his breath had caught and held that spring day he'd first seen her with the sun haloing her wavy blond hair, making her look like a goddess straight from a mythology text…and how she'd always been able to make him laugh and yet had challenged his thinking more than any teacher ever had.

He'd remembered the last time he'd talked to her and how she'd stood there in that Smurfs shirt he'd loved because it made her look both innocent and sexy, all at once; and she'd looked up at him with big blue eyes, concerned about him making it back in time for his interview. Concerned about _him_. And he'd kissed her goodbye and left her alone, defenseless. Unprepared for what lurked in the dark, not even a thin line of salt left behind to stand between her and encroaching evil. Even after the nightmares he'd been having of her death, he'd still left her unprotected. He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for that. Wasn't sure he deserved forgiveness.

And then he'd remembered his last real glimpse of her—face devoid of the animation that had always characterized her, stomach dripping blood, entire body surrounded and engulfed by flames. Just like his mother must've looked on that long-ago day in his nursery, and Sam saw it now, how the seeing of such a thing could change your world forever, could send you spiraling into darkness. He'd just been a baby before and though he'd thought he understood how it had driven Dad and Dean all these years, he hadn't. Not really. He understood it now. The love of his life gone, and Sam saw with strange clarity that he was on the path to becoming John Winchester—driven, focused on the hunt at all costs—and sorrowfully wondered if he'd ever love again or if Jess was it for him, like his mom had been for his dad. The thought was at once both painful comfort—he didn't want to think of loving anyone but Jess, _ever_—and unbearably desolate.

Sam had been thinking a lot about those two fires since the day he'd lost Jessica. Sometimes he wondered if the flames had ever really left him, or if embers had burned deep where they'd waited, glowing, for a moment of perfect peace and happiness to ignite and burn a hole through his life once again. Like the moment when he'd come back to his apartment at Stanford—having just spent a weekend with his brother, girlfriend waiting with cookies to welcome him home, law school interview pending—and for a few brief minutes, he'd been hopeful that he could have it all this time…his normal life and his brother too. Seeing Dean had reminded him of what a good team they'd always been, of how much he'd missed having him in his life. He'd meant what he'd said when they'd parted. Sam had fully intended to hook up again with Dean later, even if it was just over the phone. But then those embers had combusted and his life, his love, his hope had gone up in flames.

With his usual impeccable timing where his little brother was concerned, Dean had swept in today and saved Sam from the memories consuming him, just like he'd swept in that day weeks ago and saved Sam from the flames consuming his world. He'd been in and out of the room all day today, sometimes a solid presence at Sam's back, cleaning the weapons and re-stocking the first-aid kit, sometimes checking on him periodically—and not as subtly as he'd thought—while giving Sam privacy to do the grieving he'd had no time for till now. But a constant presence all the same, because Sam had known that even when he wasn't in the room, his big brother was only a few steps away if he needed him.

Sam knew Dean worried about him and he couldn't fault his brother for it. He wasn't sleeping much because of the nightmares and he only ate when he had to, and even then he mostly picked at his food. Problem was, everything tasted of ashes now. It was as if the fire had stripped him of his senses, as well as his future.

All he could taste was ash and all he could smell was smoke. The scent seemed to linger over him like a cloud of ill fortune that had followed him his entire life. It didn't seem to matter that Dean had bought him new clothes—he'd had to, not much had survived the fire that'd gutted the apartment—the smell of smoke still seemed to follow him. Smoke…and something far darker.

Sam would swear he could smell it all the time now, no matter where he went, no matter how many times he washed his clothes or showered and shampooed. Smoke, like grief, seemed to have seeped into his pores and no amount of scrubbing could get it out. Sometimes Sam thought he would cry from how much he missed the sultry scent of Jess's perfume or the wildly floral fragrance of her shampoo. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could smell now was smoke.

And all he could see now was darkness—_everywhere_ darkness—except when he closed his eyes and saw too-bright flames.

Sam vowed again that he would find the truth about what had taken Jessica away from him. He got it now—why his dad had always been so driven to hunt down the thing that had killed their mom. He was living it now—that burning desire for _answers_, the unslakable thirst for _vengeance_. He would get the answers to all his questions if it was the last thing he ever did. If it took forever, meant going to the ends of the earth, that's what he'd do. _Whatever_ it took. That was the promise he made to himself, to Jessica.

Sam dried his face on a paper towel and looked at his watch. He'd been in there for over ten minutes; he was surprised Dean hadn't come after him yet. Then again, his brother had obviously been trying to give him some extra breathing room today. It was funny, but the very life Sam had run from—always on the road, too-close quarters, hunting down evil—seemed to be his saving grace now. No, he knew it was more than that. _Dean_ was his saving grace. His big brother had been there for him every second since the fire, just as he had been every second of Sam's life before he'd taken off for school. Even when he'd been at Stanford, Sam had known his brother was just a phone call away if he needed him.

It shamed Sam a little to see how eagerly Dean had accepted him back, how quickly he'd assumed the mantle of responsibility again, for Sam, for everything. He couldn't think now why he'd allowed himself to cut Dean out of his life all those years when he was away at school. Why hadn't he called to let his brother know he didn't blame him for how Dad had ended things? Why had he allowed such distance grow between them? Why hadn't he at least responded when Dean had reached out to him?

Sam knew he'd had his reasons and they'd seemed to make sense at the time, but in the smoldering ruins his life had become, they just seemed small and inconsequential and like _so much_ wasted time. Had he ever really thought he'd get to a point where he wouldn't need his brother in his life? The fire had burned that illusion away along with everything else. Now all Sam could feel was a humble thankfulness that Dean's capacity for love and forgiveness and acceptance seemed to be endless when it came to his family. Having his big brother in his life again was the one comfort Sam's new life afforded.

He remembered Jessica's funeral, when Dean had stood beside him solid and strong and steady, a rock Sam could hide behind from the world, and he'd suddenly realized that though everything else, everywhere he turned, smelled of smoke—until his nostrils seemed to burn with it all the time—his big brother didn't. He just smelled like _Dean_. It made no sense really, Dean had been in the fire too—he'd been the one to pull Sam out. But Sam had realized that when his brother was near he could smell well-worn leather and musk and gunpowder and engine oil. They were the smells of home, of _love_ and _family_ and _belonging_. When his brother was close by, Sam could _breathe_ again.

That realization had carried him through the funeral's dark hours, through watching them lower that horribly empty coffin into the ground, through seeing Jessica's mom break down into sobbing wails at the cemetery, through throwing the first handful of dirt into the grave. He'd focused on those smells, on the reassuring firmness of his brother's shoulder against his own; he'd held on to those things with everything in him and it had kept him standing until the whole horrible ordeal had ended and Dean had ushered him back to the waiting Impala.

So Sam had kept the shirt Dean had loaned him to sleep in that first awful night when they'd arrived at the motel and Sam had realized that all of his clothes had burned up except for the smoke and soot-drenched ones he'd been wearing. He'd slept in the shirt every night since because it still smelled like his brother. And when he woke from nightmares too terrible to forget, the smell grounded him before his brother could even make it across the room to his side. It was the only thing that allowed him to sleep at all. When Sam lay in bed and closed his eyes, he could remember nights when they were young and Dean had let him crawl into bed with him to keep the monsters away. And sometimes he could even pretend he was that kid again, nothing wrong in his world that his big brother couldn't fix.

If Dean noticed that he hadn't switched the shirt out for one of the new ones he'd bought Sam, he didn't say anything, and had only raised an eyebrow when Sam had yelled at him for putting it in with the dirty clothes, suddenly panicked that it would get washed and he'd be robbed of even that small comfort.

All of his life his big brother had been looking out for him, taking care of him. They'd fallen right back into that after meeting up again, especially after Jess…Sam had been only too glad to hand off the responsibility that had felt too heavy for him on top of his grief. He'd been completely wrapped up in his own pain and hadn't even considered how hard things must be for Dean right now. He had to be out of his mind with worry about Dad—he'd always idolized the man—and about Sam himself, but he didn't let it show. He just took it all in stride and continued to be what Sam needed—sturdy, stable, _there_—a shelter in the storm.

When he left the bathroom, his eyes automatically sought out his big brother, who sat just where he'd left him, frowning at his watch and drumming his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. He studied Dean as he made his way back to the table, noting that his brother's tense posture immediately relaxed on seeing Sam headed his way.

A busboy had the aisle blocked and while Sam waited for him to move so he could get by, he thought of all the ways Dean had looked out for him over the years—from little things like packing his lunch for school and helping him with his homework, to big things like making sure they stayed in one place for Sam's senior year of high school and jumping in front of Sam any time a big bad tried to hurt him. But Sam was an adult now, and maybe it was time he showed his brother that he could look after him sometimes too.

Today was Thanksgiving and Sam knew the holiday meant a lot to his brother, that it was all tied up in his memories of their mom and the little bit of time he'd had with her before she'd been ripped away. He recalled a lifetime of holidays spent together and his seven-year-old self's conviction that as long as he was with Dean, it would be a good Thanksgiving. Maybe he'd lost sight of that in the intervening years, but it was starting to come back to him now.

He thought of sacrifices his brother had made to give Sam a little taste of normal, to let him know he was important, was cared for. He remembered Dean trying to give him a normal Thanksgiving dinner on the little bit of money their dad had left, dealing with crotchety neighbors and cranky cats just to get them a pie. Remembered Thanksgiving sodas that had lifted his spirits and soothed his throat, and precious memories of their mom shared over a cafeteria dinner and a split piece of pie. Remembered Dean acting as a buffer between him and their dad, smoothing things over so they could have a real Thanksgiving for the first time in forever at a small diner in the middle of an ice storm. Remembered Dean letting himself be convinced to go to a church potluck—with old ladies no less, Sam smiled in remembrance—because his little brother had asked him to.

And he remembered a carefully wrapped piece of pie and a note with affection and self-sacrifice and loneliness between its lines that had arrived on his first Thanksgiving away from home. A dozen moments, reflective of thousands more, that woven together had provided the tapestry Sam had lived his life against—a framework of _security_ and _warmth_ and _safety_ and _love_.

And he vividly recalled last Thanksgiving at Jessica's parents'. He remembered standing in the driveway watching the happy family inside and wishing for his brother so hard he'd thought he'd break from it. And how, despite having normal there in front of him in bold color, and despite his love for Jessica and his enjoyment of her family, he'd felt a gnawing emptiness that had threatened to swallow him whole. Remembered yearning for just a _few minutes_ where he could breathe free; could be himself without having to hide or keep secrets—a few minutes with his brother.

This year, Jessica was gone and he felt the loss of her intensely—a pain that pierced his heart with every beat, grief so sharp it threatened to fold him in two, tearing sorrow that buckled his knees and left him gasping for air. But for all that he'd lost—and there was no denying he'd lost a lot—he was starting to realize that he'd also found something that he'd needed even more than he'd realized. He no longer felt that despairing sense of isolation, of being perpetually _alone_ in all the ways that mattered, and _unknown_ in who he was at his core and in all the ways his life had shaped him. He didn't feel the emptiness that said his deepest foundation had been ripped away and he was left to wander aimlessly without home, without anchor, without refuge, in a dangerous and hostile world. And he didn't feel the jagged brokenness shrieking that a huge chunk of him was missing, left behind, leaving ragged holes throughout his soul where a cold wind blew through and chilled him to the core.

Instead, he felt whole in a way he hadn't in years, like all of the pieces of himself were starting to come back together. Painfully, and not the way he would have wanted, soldered together with fire and blood and tears, but together nonetheless. And he thought maybe that had a lot—everything—to do with Dean.

The busboy finally cleared the aisle with an apologetic smile and Sam set that thought aside to ponder later. In the meantime, he was willing to bet his big brother hadn't eaten pie on Thanksgiving since the last time they'd been together. Maybe it was time. For both of them.

Sam smiled as he sat down—a real smile, dimples and all, his first of the day—and he could tell Dean noticed from the way the pinched worry lines melted around his eyes and the relieved, even slightly sunny, grin he gave in response. Sam adopted a teasing tone, "What, no dessert? Where I come from, it isn't Thanksgiving without pie."

Dean searched his brother's face carefully before responding, "Didn't think ya'd want any. Y'know, with everything…" he gestured vaguely with his head and let the sentence trail off, not wanting to bring up bad memories and kill Sam's sudden good mood.

"Yeah…I know." Sam sat for a moment without speaking, tapping one finger against the table as if it were his laptop keyboard while he felt the idea out, trying it on for size. It felt right. He nodded and ventured another soft smile at his brother, who was looking increasingly anxious at his long silence. "Been a long time since I had pie on Thanksgiving."

"What, they don't have pie at Stanford? What good's going to an Ivy League school if ya can't get decent pie?" Dean joked, pretending to be scandalized.

"Not exactly the reason I went there, Dean," Sam responded dryly, but with amused affection. "Anyway, I'm sure their pie was great. Just…" he shrugged helplessly, "…didn't feel like eatin' any."

"Really?" Dean's skepticism came through in his voice. He'd always imagined Sammy sitting around with his college buddies eating pie to his heart's content. "But what about…" He waited a beat before continuing, not sure if he wanted to know. "What about last year…at Jess's folks'? I mean, ya must've had pie then, right?"

Sam had a fleeting moment to wonder how Dean knew he'd gone home with Jess the year before. He was sure he hadn't mentioned it. Then he shrugged it off as unimportant. "No, man. No pie then either." Sam's voice was low and firm, as if that should've been a foregone conclusion, and he met Dean's eyes steadily, willing him to understand.

"Why not?" Dean seemed honestly baffled, as if he couldn't quite adjust his view of the world to account for this strange turn of events.

Sam just raised one eyebrow, his look clearly saying that the answer to Dean's question should be as obvious as the brother sitting across from him.

Dean's cheeks started to flush as he finally got it. "Huh." He seemed at a loss for what to say as he scratched an eyebrow with his thumb, then looked down and began picking at a spot on the table where the blue veneer was chipped and peeling away. "Well, uh…me neither. With the pie, I mean. I, uh…it just didn't…I couldn't…"

"I know, Dean." And he did. Some things never changed, and Sam had never been more thankful for that. Dean still refused to look at him though, just nodded and cleared his throat awkwardly. Sam smiled at him affectionately. Some things really _did_ stay the same. "So how 'bout it, man? I don't know about you, but I'm in the mood for a little pie."

Dean's grin broke out like the sun after a hard rain and his green eyes sparkled at his kid brother. "Yeah? You'd better be serious, Sammy. Ya don't kid a man about a thing like pie," he finished with mock severity.

Sam just snorted and rolled his eyes at that, then waved the waitress over so he could place their order. Turned out there was only one piece of pumpkin pie left in the place, so they shared it, which seemed only fitting. It was a perfect piece of pie—the pumpkin creamy and sweet with just a hint of spice, the crust flaky and firm, with a big dollop of real whipped cream to top it all off. Sam was surprised to find it the first thing in what felt like ages that didn't turn to ash on his tongue. It was delicious. It tasted like sweet relief…like being home again after a long, hard journey away.

Jess was gone and that would never be okay. Dean had promised him that they would find Dad, find her killer, and _end this_. Sam fully intended to hold him to that promise. But in the meantime, he had his brother back and they were starting to be a family again. With their screwed-up lives, maybe that was the most he could hope for. In the end, maybe the song was right—nothing else mattered.


	15. 2006: Baudelaire Inn

_Sorry for the wait between chapters, everyone. Since this season's been hard on many of us, I re-did the end of this chapter to include a "tag" so it would close on a more uplifting note._

_Nana56, here's the pie you ordered. *g* PlatinumRoseLady, thank you for the lovely compliment of featuring me in your podcast. _

_I was asked to turn on anonymous reviewing, so I'm giving it a shot. It's enabled now._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_2006: Baudelaire Inn _

This would be the first Thanksgiving without Dad, and that was how Dean measured everything now…the first hunt after Dad's death, the first fight with Sam after Dad's death—and _that _hadn't taken long, the first lead on the yellow-eyed demon after Dad's death. Not that Dad had ever been around much anyway, especially the last few years, but still—Dean had known he was out there somewhere, larger than life, taking down every evil thing he encountered like some friggin' superhero. Had known that they could call him if they needed to, that their dad would be there for them when it really mattered.

Now they had no one—no mother, no father, no one to look to for answers or help, no one to lead them. The chain of command had been broken and it was all on them now, all on _him_, and weight of that left Dean feeling dizzy and exposed and old beyond his years. He was tired, _so_ _tired_.

Logically, he knew that he'd been taking care of himself and Sammy for years, even when they'd all still been hunting together as a family, because Dad had been gone a lot. But it was different now. The world seemed infinitely larger without his dad in it and more dangerous than ever.

Dean sat on the lumpy motel bed cleaning the weapons they'd used on the recent hunt. He let the familiar ritual soothe him as he lost himself in thought. Sam was sitting nearby, working on the laptop and sneaking peeks at his older brother when he thought he wouldn't notice. Dean knew the kid was worried about him. He'd broken down just that one time by the side of the road when he'd first told Sam how he was feeling—_What's dead should stay dead…_I _should have stayed dead_—but he'd seen the way Sam looked at him when he thought Dean didn't see. Like Dean was broken somehow and he wanted desperately to find the missing part that would fix him, but didn't know where to look. They'd eventually begun to find their footing again, and Dean was slowly starting to act like his old self—heckling Sammy whenever possible, taking pleasure in life's small absurdities, mouthing off to whatever big bad they happened to be facing, babying the Impala—but they both knew there was a gaping wound inside him that just didn't seem to be healing.

After his recent meeting with the crossroads demon had confirmed his worst suspicions about what his dad had done to save him, Dean had felt so shaken and battered by the knowledge that he'd nearly lost it. He'd seriously considered making a deal of his own. Worse yet, Sam _knew_ he'd considered it because Dean hadn't been able to deny it when he'd asked. After that, Sam had started looking at him again like he was _breakable_. He seemed to sense that Dean was teetering on a dark and precarious edge that he couldn't afford to go over because he might not make it back. Dean knew Sam thought it was just their father's death and the deal he'd made that had Dean grasping for a lifeline. He was wrong.

It wasn't just about losing Dad, though that was bad enough, or about knowing that it was his own fault his dad was gone, though that was even worse. A big part of it was about losing _Sam_. Dad's last words had locked Dean's soul into a vice-grip of desperation and despair. He could lose his little brother. If not to death—because Dean couldn't think of _any_ situation where he'd be able to kill the kid he'd practically raised, no matter _what_ Dad had said—then to _something_ _else_. What, he didn't know. Only that if he couldn't save him, he would have to…well, it didn't matter, he _would_ save Sam, even if he died trying—but from _what_? If only Dad hadn't been so freakin' cryptic. If only he hadn't waited till the last few minutes of his life to open up. Friggin' ex-marine need-to-know crap _again_ and Dean could scream from frustration and anger, as much as he could cry from the longing to see his dad again, to let someone else be in charge, to go back to just taking orders and being the good soldier he'd been trained to be.

Following orders was something he knew how to do, but this—dealing with his dad's final order—he just couldn't wrap his mind around. It ate at him like a cancer—seething, malignant, spreading darkness in its wake until it left him so tired that he didn't think he could _do this_ anymore. Didn't think he could keep getting up every morning, carrying this secret like a stone around his neck that threatened to drag him to the bottom of a deep, dark abyss that he would never claw his way out of. Dad's final order was the salt in the wound of his death and Dean feared he would bleed out before he ever figured out how to live with either.

Sometimes Dean thought that creeping, spreading darkness would consume him whole, from the heart out. It was all he could see anymore, except for when he closed his eyes and saw too-bright flames. Flames consuming his mom, who whispered his name as she burned…the blaze of the funeral pyre they'd built for their dad…Sammy surrounded by the inferno engulfing his girlfriend, greedy flames reaching out, wanting him too…their dad twisting and screaming in the light of hellfire. Why was it always fire? In the end, fire had taken everything; had stolen his home, his childhood, his family, his hope.

Even his father had succumbed to the flames in the end. It mattered little that he'd already been dead, or that they'd salted and burned him in response to his own orders. The flames had been blisteringly hot as they'd licked and consumed their sole remaining parent, their last chance of coming through this fight with their already-too-small family intact. All they had now was each other and, Heaven help him, Dean wasn't sure he was enough. Wasn't sure he could keep Sammy safe on his own. He needed his dad—needed his guidance, his confidence, his backup. Their dad had always placed himself between them and evil, an immovable barrier of protection, and now all that stood between evil and Sammy was Dean himself. The last line of defense against the encroaching darkness and it scared the crap out of him. He couldn't help but think Sam would've been better off with their dad there to watch out for him. Nothing ever got past their dad; the man was a legend. A legend who was gone because of Dean.

Even when he wasn't sleeping—which was most of the time—Dean couldn't escape the reality of his dad's death. The smell of sulfur seemed to follow him everywhere. Sulfur and smoke, until it seared his nostrils and burned in his throat, coating it with ash. The scent seemed to linger over their unbearably small family, like a cloud of ill fortune. It didn't seem to matter how often they showered or did laundry, the smell of smoke still seemed to follow them. Smoke, like grief, seemed to have seeped into their pores and no amount of scrubbing could get it out.

Sometimes Dean thought he would break apart from how much he missed the smells of his family. He'd kept one of his dad's old flannels, and it still smelled of him—of woodsmoke and pine, spicy aftershave and gunpowder. Sometimes, when Sam was in the shower or out grabbing dinner, Dean would put the flannel on and wear it, just for a minute, and it would be like he was with his dad again.

He even missed the smell of Sam, though the kid was with him every day. But it was like since hearing their dad's final words, the crisp, clean scent of soap and the smell of Sammy's girly shampoo and the musty smell of old books and the fresh scent of rain and the smell of his frou-frou coffee—all the smells he associated with his little brother—were all gone, leaving just sulfur and smoke. Demons and fire. Sometimes Dean thought his entire life could be summed up in those two words.

Despite what he'd told him, sometimes Dean wondered if Sam was right, if their family was cursed. Just when he'd had all he ever really wanted—his dad and brother with him, all of them a family again, saving people, hunting things—tragedy had struck once more and Dean wondered when he would _ever_ _learn_ that he just couldn't have it all. That wasn't the way his life worked. It ended sad or it ended bloody, but for the Winchesters and those they loved, it always ended too soon—their parents, Pastor Jim, Caleb, Jessica…everyone they'd ever loved killed by demons. He wondered if he'd be able to protect Sammy from that same fate.

By the time he finished with the weapons and had them repacked in the waiting duffel, his eyes were dry as bones and his throat was burning from all the words he hadn't been saying. Words like _How could you, Dad? How could you make that deal?__ I'm not __**worth **__**it! **_and _How am I supposed to live with that?_ and _How could you tell me that about Sammy and then just take off?_ and _**What am I supposed to do now?!**_ and _Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy. He said if I couldn't save you...I had to kill you. _Sometimes he thought the words would build up till he choked on them. But he couldn't give them voice. His dad was too far beyond his reach to hear him anyway, no matter how hard he raged, and though Sam would listen if Dean needed to talk, that risk was just too great.

Sammy was all he had left now and without him Dean would be alone, left behind by everyone he'd ever loved. He just couldn't chance telling Sam the truth. Dad had begged him not to say anything, but Sam would be so angry, would feel betrayed that Dean hadn't told him sooner. Dean got that; he deserved it. But he'd needed time to try and wrap his mind around this, to get a handle on it, to _figure_ _something out,_ because Sammy…Sammy would be looking at him with those big wounded eyes wanting to know what they should _do_, what their father had _meant_, and Dean had to have an answer for him; had to be able to reassure him somehow. He couldn't just let him down, not when Dean was all Sam had now. Dad was gone, and that meant it was up to Dean to find answers, to come up with a plan, to _save Sam._ And as lost, as alone, as unsure as he felt about everything else, Dean knew one thing with certainty: he _would_ save Sam…or he would die trying.

With the weapons taken care of, Dean went to work on repacking his own duffel next, fashioning all of his clothes into neat rolls so they'd take up less room and wouldn't wrinkle. They planned to leave tomorrow—Thanksgiving Day—for the next town, the next hunt. Didn't have anything yet, but they would. They always found _something. _It was one of the few constants in Dean's life—the persistence of evil that needed killing. That and the people he loved leaving, but Dean tried hard not to think about that.

Instead he thought of the few good things he had left in his life—the Impala and his little brother. Sam was all that had gotten him through losing Dad, and much as he complained, Dean didn't know what he'd do without the kid constantly looking at him with those emo eyes, willing to listen when he needed to talk, forcing him to talk when he didn't want to, calling him on his crap, just being there; needing Dean and not being afraid to let him know it. Trusting him, following his lead, _believing_ in him. A solid presence at his side, watching his back, patching him back together. Sam was the only good thing Dean had left, and he silently vowed that nothing was going to happen to his little brother. Not on his watch.

Dean didn't know how long it would take to track down answers on Sam's powers, on the psychic kids, on what the yellow-eyed demon had planned for him. In the meantime, he would _soldier on_. It was what he did, all he knew to do, and he just couldn't let it _matter_ that he felt hollowed out inside; that he had to concentrate on dragging himself out of bed every morning because his first thought of the day was that he couldn't _do this anymore_; or that he had to push himself well beyond his limits so that when he fell into bed at night he wouldn't lie awake…hearing his dad's last words screaming in his head…thinking about what the crossroads demon had told him…imagining Sam's reaction if he ever found out Dean was hiding a secret like this from him…thinking about how big the world seemed without his superhero dad taking up space in it, out there fighting the good fight, doing the job—no, none of that mattered. He would keep going…for Sam. Saving Sammy was the only thing that mattered. Without that, their dad might as well have left him dead, because he couldn't make it without his brother. He'd had to live with losing him once, when the kid had left for school and cut ties, and it'd nearly killed him. Now, with their dad gone too, it would end him just as surely as that car wreck should've.

All the same, he knew he wasn't going to be eating any pie this Thanksgiving—the very _thought _of pie made his stomach hurt. And thinking about the holiday just made him ache with memories of the Thanksgivings he'd spent with his father—hanging out in the hospital when Dean had gotten his tonsils out, his dad rolling his eyes good-naturedly at Dean's antics with the nurses; laughing together over coffee and pie in a remote diner after an evening spent grave digging; watching campy movies and munching candy in a cheap motel room in the back of beyond—and then burn again with anger that they'd had _so little time_ together to just be a family. What _right_ had Dad had to trade his soul for Dean's life? It wasn't _fair._ It had been Dean's time and his dad should've just let him go. The world would be a far better place, a far _safer_ place, with John Winchester in it. Dean was a poor substitute for the legend his dad had been. He couldn't even begin to fill the man's shoes. And now he felt like he was living in a pressure cooker and time was running out, the constant _save Sam save Sam save Sam_ _**SAVE SAM **_pounding in his brain with an urgency that increased as each day went by without answers, until he thought he'd explode from _tension_ and _grief_ and _fear_ and _anger_ and _love._

So when later that evening, after Sam had finished his research and Dean had packed away all their gear, his little brother broached the topic of them doing something to celebrate Thanksgiving the next day, Dean blew up. "What've we got to be thankful for, Sam, huh?!" he demanded angrily, green eyes dark with emotion. "Dad is _gone__!_ And he isn't coming back, not _ever._"

"But you're still here," Sam stated quietly.

"I _shouldn't be._ We've been over this, man. Dad's dead because of _me._ So you tell me, Sam, what is there to be thankful for?!" Dean barked as he stood and began to pace in agitation.

"How about the fact that you're _not_?" Sam challenged stubbornly, struggling for patience as he stood and watched his brother pace.

"Not what?" Dean snapped, turning to face him.

"Not _dead,_ Dean!" Sam's voice rose as he spread his arms wide in frustration that he couldn't seem to get through to his brother. "Look…I miss Dad. I'm sorry he's gone, man, and I wish…" he shook his head, "but _you're_ still _here._ And that _means_ something to me."

"Yeah—it means Dad made some friggin' deal with a demon, Sam. It means he's probably in Hell," Dean's voice broke on last word, the pain of that near-certainty still too fresh to deal with.

Sam softened at the shattered look in his brother's eyes. "Look Dean, whatever Dad did or didn't do…I'm grateful you're alive, man." His hazel eyes were beseeching, pleading for understanding. Asking for his brother not to hold it against him that he could find something to be thankful for, even in the wake of their father's death. "I mean, when you were in the hospital, I really thought I was gonna lose you. I thought that was _it._ And I just couldn't…I mean, I can't…What would I have done if something had happened to you, Dean?" Sam's voice was anguished as he was instantly transported back to the sterile white room and those moments when they'd fought to resuscitate his brother, to bring him back from the brink of death, to snatch him from the hands of the waiting reaper.

"You and Dad would've been fine, Sam," Dean's voice was sure, his words final.

"No." Sam shook his head helplessly, at a loss as to how to make his brother see the truth. "See, I know you think that, but you're wrong, man. Dean, after everything, after _Jess_, you're the only thing that kept me going. You picked me up and put the pieces back together, man, and I don't…if something happened to you…there wouldn't be anyone who could do that again—put the pieces back together." He stared at his big brother intently, willing Dean to see the conviction in his eyes.

"Whaddya talkin' about, Sam?" Dean's tone was dismissive. "You would've had _Dad._ He'd have—"

Sam shook his head sadly, cutting him off. Dean just didn't get it. "Dad's not you, Dean." It was said simply, as if that should be self-explanatory. "Look, man…all I'm sayin' is that I'm thankful you're still with me. I mean, Dean, I can't…I can't lose you too. I just…" he stuttered to a stop, his hazel eyes filling with tears that he struggled not to let fall, knowing Dean would hate that.

Dean was taken aback for a moment at the depth of Sam's emotion. Sure, he knew the kid loved him and all, but Dean had always seen himself as expendable. Surely anyone in their right mind would see that trading Dad for him was a bum deal. Dad was…well, _Dad._ But he'd never had any defense against his little brother's tears, so he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, Sammy. Okay. We can have your little Thanksgiving…_whatever__, _if it's really that important." He studied the kid, a little worried now.

"It is," Sam sniffed, but when he spoke, his voice was firm.

Dean nodded. "Okay. So…where's this holiday hoedown gonna take place?" he asked dryly, but with a hint of amusement, one brow lifted in question.

Sam jumped in excitedly, glad he'd convinced his older brother to go along with his idea. He really thought this would be good for Dean. "Well, I checked and the diner down the street's gonna serve a Thanksgivin' meal with all the fixings. I thought we could swing by on our way out of town tomorrow. Y'know, grab some turkey—yours undoubtedly smothered in gravy—" Dean smirked in agreement at that "—some stuffing…maybe some pumpkin pie." Sam's voice rose in question on the last one, not knowing if Dean was ready for pie just yet and not sure how he'd react to the suggestion.

Dean recognized a bribe when he heard one and knew how Sam expected him to react to such an offer; how he would've responded months before without a second thought. Surely he could do this much for his brother, could give him this bit of normalcy. After all, Sammy was the only family he had now and he'd pushed him away pretty hard in the beginning, with his grief over Dad and his anguish over the man's final words. He didn't know if he could stomach eating pie on the holiday though. It just felt all kinds of wrong to sit around enjoying turkey and pie when Dad might be…when Dad was probably…Dean couldn't even bear to think it.

But…it was Sam. Sam was asking him for this. And…he'd been Sam's dad, too. Sam had been looking for a way to help Dean deal with stuff, looking for a way _in._ Maybe it was time Dean cracked that door a little more, let his little brother try to comfort both of them, because in the end, helping Dean helped Sam too. So Dean did what he knew Sam expected, and if his heart wasn't totally in it…well, both of them pretended not to notice.

"Oh, yeah? Pumpkin pie?" Dean pasted on a light-hearted grin that would've fooled anyone else. "Think it's homemade?"

"From scratch," Sam smiled smugly, dimples flashing, though his eyes assessed Dean carefully.

"Well…I guess it couldn't hurt if we swung by for a few minutes. Y'know…since we're already headin' out that way." Dean shrugged casually, as if it was no big deal.

Sam released the breath he'd been holding. "Thanks, Dean," he said softly, eyes conveying that he knew what the concession had cost his big brother.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled good-naturedly. "Better not be gravy from a jar," he warned, pointing at Sam. Then he grabbed his leather jacket and shrugged it on. "I'm headin' over to the mini-mart to grab snacks," he indicated the store's direction with a tilt of the head. "Want anything?"

"Naw, man, I'm good."

"'Kay. Back in ten." With a pointed nod at the door, Dean reminded, "Lock up behind me."

Sam just rolled his eyes in response and shooed his brother out the door. He didn't take it personally; Dean was just being _Dean—_overprotective and bossy. Sam smiled. It was good to have his brother acting like himself again. As he went over to lock the door behind him, he huffed a quiet laugh. What could happen in ten minutes?

When Dean got back, arms loaded with drinks and jerky, it was to see Sam lying on the floor panting as he recovered from another of his weirdo visions, this one apparently starring Dean himself. Dean helped him up and started loading their stuff into the car. He heaved a heavy sigh. Here they went again—he _so _should've known better than to leave the kid alone. He didn't even get a chance to enjoy the snacks he'd just bought; they just threw everything in the trunk and took off into the night for Rivergrove, Oregon…all thoughts of Thanksgiving dinner and pumpkin pie left far behind.

*************************************************************

It was a couple of months later—after Dean had let Sam in on their dad's final words and they'd come to a tentative peace about the whole situation—while on a trip through Kentucky, that they stopped for dinner at a small out-of-the-way place called Betty's Heavenly Pies. With a name like that, Dean hadn't been able to resist, and when the waitress brought out two separate menus—one for dinner and one for all the varieties of pie they offered—Sam was sure he'd never drag his brother away.

Dean rushed them both through dinner and then salivated over the pie menu for long minutes until Sam finally asked the plump grandmotherly owner what she recommended. She just smiled and pointed at the oversized button she wore on her blue gingham smock, boasting that Betty's was "Home of the World's Best Chocolate Pie." Dean got a strange look on his face, but quietly seconded Sam's order for a slice of the prize-winning dessert.

Sam looked at his brother quizzically, wondering what had happened to the enthusiastic "so much pie, so little time" grin he'd been sporting just minutes earlier. After carrying the pie out to their table, Betty headed off to talk to some regulars. Sam waited, not eating, hoping Dean would open up and tell him what he was thinking about.

Dean just sat for a minute, looking at his pie—taking in the delicate, flaky crust and the frothy cream layer on top of thick, dark filling—and using his fork to play with the chocolate shavings curled over the top. When he spoke, it was so quietly that Sam had to lean closer to hear him. "Y'know…chocolate pie was Dad's favorite." Dean cleared his throat, gave Sam a small, sad smile. "He told me once his mom made the best chocolate pie he'd ever tasted…every time he had it, he thought of her."

Sam wondered how he'd never known that and cleared his own throat around the sudden lump there. It was good that his brother was talking about their dad; it didn't happen so often that Sam took it for granted and he didn't want to do anything to ruin the moment. So he just nodded solemnly and lifted his first forkful of pie in a toast. "To Dad."

Dean nodded at his little brother. He'd just shared something about their dad and his chest hadn't constricted, threatening to stop his breathing. There'd been pain, but it wasn't overwhelming. It didn't hurt as much to think of him now. Dad was gone—forever gone—and that would _never_ be okay. It was a hole in his gut that Dean would have to live with for the rest of his life. But he and Sam were together, they were a family again, and he was going to _save Sam,_ if it was the last thing he ever did. They would hunt down the demon that took their parents away from them and _end this_. Dean was sure of it. He wasn't losing anyone else. So he allowed himself a small smile in response as he lifted his own forkful of pie. "To Dad."


	16. 2007: Days Inn

_Sorry for the extra wait between chapters. I'm still having computer problems and I had to stop working on this to finish up my first-ever zine fic. It's finally done, woo hoo! Hope you all had a blessed Easter!_

_Happy Birthday, Seth! This one's for you.  
_

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_2007: Days Inn _

"C'mon, Sammy, have a heart! It's Thanksgiving!" Dean cajoled, continuing the campaign he'd been waging most of the day. He went over to stand by the table where his brother was working on his laptop. "Y' know, _Thanksgiving_…a time to eat so much you can barely move, watch football all day…wouldn't it be nice to have a traditional Thanksgiving for once, man?" A note of wistfulness crept into his voice as he tried to convince his brother to go along with his holiday plans.

"No," Sam's reply was stoic, his fingers on the keyboard barely pausing as he continued to skim the web page he was searching.

"No? Whaddya mean, _no_?" Dean asked incredulously. The poster boy for wanting a normal life was turning down a traditional holiday celebration? Dean resisted the urge to check his brother for a fever.

Sam turned to give him a glare. "I mean, _no,_ Dean! I've got more important things to do than…" he gestured with his hand, indicating the holiday and anything else non life-threatening, "…than stuffing my face with turkey and pie," he finished hotly.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." Dean shook his head in mock reprimand, as if not sure where he went wrong with the kid. "There's nothin' more important than pie," he wisecracked, hoping to get his brother to lighten up a little.

But Sam refused to be teased out of his mood. "Yeah, Dean, there is." He turned back to his laptop determinedly, clicking on the next link from the list he was working his way through. "We're running out of time here, man, and we're no closer to finding a way out of this demon deal."

Dean softened, hearing the fear beneath his brother's anger and frustration. He knew the kid was just worried about him, but Sam was going to kill himself if he kept this up—the nonstop research, the late nights, the single-minded pursuit of a solution. He was afraid Sam would burn out, or worse self-destruct, if he didn't find a way to break the deal. And since Dean wasn't sure there _was_ a way, he couldn't let that happen.

"C'mon, Sammy," he tried again. "One day. That's all I'm asking, man." One day with his little brother. To forget about the death sentence staring him in the face…to forget about Hell…to forget he'd be leaving Sammy unprotected in a few short months. It was the most Dean could ask for, time with his brother. It was what he'd sold his soul to buy—just a little more time with him. "One day's not gonna make that big a difference. You've gotta take a break sometime," he finished lightly, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

"No, I don't," Sam's voice was pure steel. "We're running _out_ of _days,_ Dean, and I can't just sit here and…" his voice cracked slightly, "…and _celebrate_ when the clock's ticking down." By the time he finished speaking, his tone was firm again, resolute.

"Okay. I get it, Sam, I do." Dean lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "But the thing is…you need a break, Sammy. We _both_ do," he confessed quietly. "I mean, all the stuff that's been goin' down lately, first Bela and her freakin' Hand of Glory…" he grimaced in disgust, though whether at the mention of the thief or the ugly artifact they'd helped her steal was anyone's guess. "And the stuff that just went down with Gordon…I think we could both use this." He tried to catch his brother's eyes, his own beseeching. "Ya know, just relax. Forget our troubles for a while. Get some grub, kick back, watch the game…" he smiled hopefully, shifting a little from foot to foot as he waited for Sam's answer, hoping he'd gotten through.

Sam sighed, long and deep. He seemed to consider it for a moment, though he was careful not to meet Dean's eyes, perhaps knowing it would be hard to refuse his brother's pleading gaze. After a moment, he shook his head. "No, Dean. I'm sorry, but I just can't." And Sam did sound sorry, a little, but mostly he just sounded determined, focused, as he turned back to the computer.

Dean let out his own sigh, shoulders slumping as he admitted defeat. "Okay. I guess I'll go grab us some takeout." He waited a second to see if Sam would change his mind, but he didn't, so Dean grabbed his jacket and headed out to the Impala. He consoled himself with the thought that there was always Christmas coming up. Maybe he could get Sam to celebrate that.

Sam watched him go, rubbed a hand over his burning eyes. He sagged a little in his chair now that his brother wasn't there to see it. It hurt to see Dean so dejected and know that it was because of something he'd done. Dean didn't ask for much; it took so little to make him happy. Sam fought with regret and self-doubt. Would taking the time out for one meal really have killed him? No, but it really might kill _Dean_, he reminded himself harshly. Every second counted now and nothing—_nothing_—mattered except finding a way to save his big brother. Resolve firmly back in place, Sam straightened and resumed typing.

It didn't take Dean long to run to the diner down the street and get a Thanksgiving special, complete with all the fixings, for him and Sam. Maybe once he got back to the room with it, the kid would be willing to take a break and they could fit in part of the game. He nodded to himself as he pulled out his wallet to pay, hopeful again. Yeah, that would do it—even Sam had to stop to eat sometime.

While the waitress rang up his bill Dean let his gaze drift around the diner, his attention drawn to the family in the corner that was talking and laughing, then to the older guy sitting at the counter alone, nursing his coffee and a piece of pie. Dean snapped his fingers in remembrance and turned a charming smile on the young brunette behind the counter. "Almost forgot the most important part. You got any pie, sweetheart?"

She blushed at the endearment and he noticed for the first time how pretty she was. He mentally chastised himself—not noticing a pretty girl _and _almost forgetting the pie? He was definitely off his game. Of course, it was all Sam's fault he was so distracted. He made a mental note to smack his brother upside the head when he got back to the room.

Dean leaned against the counter as the waitress went to gather the extra food he'd requested. She came back quickly with the two largest slices of fresh pumpkin pie they had and slipped them neatly into a box that he added to the bag of food he held. Sammy was gonna love this—it wasn't every day they got fresh pumpkin pie. Dean grinned, looking forward to spending a little time with his brother, watching the game, eating pie…what more could you ask for?

But when he got back to the room, Sam was engrossed in his research. He barely looked up as Dean came in and didn't even stop typing when Dean pulled out the styrofoam boxes of food, saving the pumpkin pie for last. Sam picked at his dinner as he read, not even surfacing at the offer of extra green beans, and he declined the pumpkin pie without a second glance.

Dean tried eating a couple bites of his own pie, but he couldn't find any joy in it with his brother's piece sitting there untouched. Disheartened, Dean pushed it aside with a mournful look and sat watching the end of the football game in silence while his brother worked on nearby.

************************************************************

The next morning while Dean checked them out of the motel, Sam did a final sweep of the room to make sure they hadn't left anything behind. He paused as he went by the trashcan, something catching his eye that didn't seem to belong. When he looked closer, he could see it was pumpkin pie. Two big pieces of it, barely touched. He felt guilt stir deep within him. Dean hadn't eaten his pie. He'd bought enough for both of them, and Sam guessed his brother had probably tried to get him to stop what he was doing and enjoy it with him, but Sam had been too distracted to pay much attention.

Suddenly struck, he thought back to the night before. What _had_ Dean been doing while he'd researched? Eating Thanksgiving dinner alone? Watching the game alone? Sam swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. What if it turned out to be Dean's last Thanksgiving? Is that really how he wanted his brother to remember it? It wasn't so much to ask after all, to spend the holiday with the only family you had left. He felt tears well in his eyes and pushed them back with fierce determination. No. It _wouldn't_ be Dean's last Thanksgiving. They would have next year together—a lot more years together—and Sam would make it up to him then. They could do all the celebrating Dean wanted after Sam _fixed this._

But the memory of that pie in the trashcan kept coming back to Sam, speaking of dashed hopes, of loneliness and desolation. And he wondered if maybe, just maybe, in his single-minded determination to save his brother, he wasn't losing something vital. If the worst happened—and Sam could hardly bear to think of it, let alone give it serious consideration—if this _was_ Dean's last year, Sam could miss it, all of it…focused so much on _saving_ Dean that he stopped _seeing_ Dean.

Sam remembered what he'd said to Dean not so long ago. _I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. _ Maybe he needed to do the same. Not that he'd stop trying to find a way to break the deal—that wasn't an option, because he _couldn't_ lose his brother. But…maybe there was more than one way to lose someone.

So when they stopped at a strip mall on their way out of town for Dean to pick up antifreeze for the Impala, Sam took stock of the stores around him. He smiled, seeing they had just what he needed. He waved Dean off to the automotive store he was eyeing, with a promise to meet him back at the car in a few minutes. Dean just rolled his eyes at the inscrutability of little brothers and went on his way.

************************************************************

When Dean got out of the shower later that night, he was still humming _Nothing Else Matters,_ one of his all-time favorite Metallica songs. It had been a pretty good day, all in all. Sammy had loosened up a bit after they'd left the last town, smiling and talking and even occasionally laughing at Dean's jokes as they drove along, instead of pulling out his computer or a book to disappear into, as had become his habit.

To top it off, he'd actually volunteered to make the food run while Dean took a shower. It was probably the longest he'd voluntarily been away from his research since this whole thing had started and Dean had to wonder at the change in attitude. Well, whatever it was, he just hoped it would last. Hopefully Sam would be back soon with the food, though; Dean's stomach was rumbling already.

When he went to toss his dirty clothes back into his duffel, Dean was surprised to find a small white paper bag sitting on top of it. Suspiciously, he shook it and heard a soft rattle like pebbles hitting against one another. He considered and discarded options for practical jokes Sam could be playing on him. Surely if his little brother wanted to start a prank war, he'd be a little more subtle.

Satisfied with that reasoning, and unable to resist, he opened the bag and peered inside. He knew at once he'd found the reason for Sam's mysterious errand earlier. The bag was full of light orangish-brown jelly beans. Curious, he popped one in his mouth and couldn't contain the grin of delight that spread across his face. They tasted just like pumpkin pie.

Dean looked at the outside of the bag for identifying markings and saw that Sam had scrawled a note on the back in black pen. _I'm still thankful for you. And you're still a __jerk._ He huffed out a laugh, trying to ignore the sudden lump in his throat and prickling in his eyes. He softly gave the reply his brother would've expected if he'd been there, as he carried his bag of candy over to the bed.

He sat leaning against the headboard, flipping through channels with the remote, one ear listening for the Impala's distinctive rumble. He was still smiling as he grabbed a handful of the delicious candies and tossed them into his mouth, chewing happily as he settled in to wait for his brother's return.

************************************************************

_There's at least one more chapter of this story to go. I'm also getting ready to start posting my new story, which will be a multi-chapter action/adventure piece with some hurt/comfort thrown in for good measure. Please be on the lookout for it!_


	17. 2008: Singer Salvage

_I can't believe this story is coming to an end. I have LOVED writing it. Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, or added this to their favorites and alerts. I can't tell you how much your support has meant to me. Originally, this story was supposed to be a one-shot vignette piece, but uh, yeah…apparently, I am a dangerous woman when given a theme. LOL This story has definitely grown (to nearly 80 pages!) and taken on a life of its own. Thanks for your support and encouragement as I fulfilled my vision for this series. I really hope you'll let me know what you think of this chapter, and of the series in general, even if you've never reviewed before. This chapter is dedicated to all of you!_

_Thanks to Jo, for help with the timeline and for the excellent resources on her website._

**Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie**

_2008: Singer Salvage_

"You actually cooked a turkey?" Dean's tone was almost comically incredulous. Ever since they'd gotten the call from Bobby with the invite to spend Thanksgiving at his place, Dean had felt like he'd woken up in an alternate universe. Again. Only the realization that _yep, his life was still pretty much crap_ kept him from stocking up on the lamb's blood and knifing himself in the gut. Again. Still, the whole thing was surreal.

"I look like Betty Crocker to you?" Bobby challenged as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, then leveled him with a glare, just daring him to make the smart remark he knew lingered on Dean's tongue. Bobby could hear Sam stifling a laugh in the background. That was okay; he'd get his.

Dean gave him a smirk that spoke volumes. "Okay, so…no turkey."

Bobby held the glare for a few moments longer, just so Dean knew that _he_ knew what the boy had been about to say. Then he grudgingly conceded, "Got some turkey slices I picked up at the grocery; that should do the job. Made some side dishes to go with."

"When did you learn to cook?" Dean couldn't resist asking. He seemed so genuinely baffled by this turn of events that Bobby wanted to smack him upside the head. Hard.

The older hunter settled for an exasperated sigh, "Boy, what do you think I eat every day? Ain't no diner down the road I can go to every meal."

"Sorry," Dean held up his hand in a placating gesture. You did _not_ want to tick off the guy holding a big meat fork in his hand. Especially when that guy was Bobby Singer, who could probably come up with a dozen ways to kill a man with a fork, regardless of its size. But that didn't stop him from mumbling under his breath, just loud enough for both Bobby and Sam to hear, "Touchy."

Sam let out another soft sound of amusement from where he stood next to his brother's chair and Dean made a mental note to short-sheet his bed later. Sam had been getting way too much amusement over how unsettled Dean was at the whole holiday-at-Bobby's-house-after-school-special thing they had going on. He'd chuckled to himself at random times the entire drive out here, and Dean knew—just _knew_—Sam had been remembering the stupefied expression on Dean's face when he'd gotten Bobby's call. He didn't let it bother him too much; it was nice to hear Sam laughing again. The new Sam he'd come back to was way too serious. Of course, Dean reflected, the old broody Sam had hardly been a laugh riot either. Still, he took heart at the sound of that laughter. They'd both let go of some of their secrets over the past couple weeks, and they'd worked side-by-side on the big angel/demon smackdown, more in sync than they'd been in a while. Maybe things were finally starting to get back to normal between them.

"Anyway," Bobby continued gruffly, pretending he hadn't heard that last remark or Sam's snort of amusement, "thought we should do somethin' for the holiday." He absently rapped his knuckles on the scarred wood of the dining room table he'd liberated from under several stacks of books so they'd have somewhere to sit and eat.

Dean scoffed at that sentiment. "With everything that's going on, do we really have much to be thankful for?" His expression was skeptical as he sat at the table, nursing his sling-bound left arm. He was trying to keep from jostling the shoulder that had popped back out of joint when he and Sam had taken on a haunting before they'd had a chance to heal up from the recent cosmic showdown. There had turned out to be more than one poltergeist in the old asylum, and Dean had been thrown—hard and repeatedly—against a wall. The shoulder had buckled under the blows, and now he was stuck having to keep it completely immobilized or risking permanent damage.

It frustrated him, because all Dean wanted was to get back on the job. Not the angel/demon crap, but back to the basics—_saving people, hunting things._ He was jittery with the need of it. Maybe if he saved enough people, it would help fill the hole Hell had left in him, just a little. Or at least keep the nightmares at bay. Things seemed to have come to a head, what with seeing Alastair again and his subsequent confession to Sam about his time in Hell, and the nightmares were worse than ever. Even though ultimately their plan had worked and they'd come through the angel/demon face-off intact, Anna was still gone and Uriel was still making threats and now Sam knew that Dean had broken in Hell. It hardly seemed a victory.

Bobby saw Dean start to fall into the dark thoughts that had been swirling behind his eyes since he'd arrived, so he turned to Sam for help. "Will you smack your brother for me, please?"

Sam obligingly reached over and smacked Dean on the back of the head, grinning the whole time.

"Ow! What was that for?" Dean rubbed the spot with his good hand, glancing back and forth between Sam and Bobby in indignation.

"_That,_" Bobby scowled, "was for being an idjit." He really hoped neither of the boys could see the worry he'd been trying to hide. The stuff that had gone down while he was away—it wasn't good, not by a long shot. He was relieved the boys had come through it, even without him there to pull their butts out of the fire, but it still scared the crap out of him. This was the Apocalypse they were talking about—it was big…and his boys were smack in the middle of it. It didn't sit well with Bobby, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it.

He had wrapped up his case in the Dominican as quickly as he could after getting off the phone with Dean, and had arrived home just in time to invite them out for the holiday and provide a place for them to recuperate for a few days while Dean's shoulder healed up. Bobby hadn't failed to notice in all the excitement, though, that Sam and Dean seemed a little more in sync than they had lately. Maybe they'd talked, gotten some things off their chests. He knew it was a big adjustment, Dean being back, even without all the end-of-the-world stuff that was going down. But these boys—they just didn't operate well when they were at odds with each other. They worked best as a team, always had. He was glad to see some of the tension between them had eased just a little. Anyway, they could all use the break, some time off to relax and recover, before the next crapstorm hit. And it would. It always did. Which was why they needed to celebrate while they could. "You of all people should know why we're celebratin'," he told Dean pointedly.

"Yeah, why's that?" Dean responded, one eyebrow raised, as if he genuinely didn't know what there was to be thankful for.

Bobby just stared at him, incredulous that he would even have to ask. "Well for one thing, you're not in _Hell_," he answered sardonically. The boy could be _so_ dense sometimes; they both could be, come to think of it. _Idjits._ "And for another," he cocked a thumb in Sam's direction, who had the grace to look sheepish, "Sam there's not off tryin' his best to tick off every demon he meets in hopes a someone puttin' him out of his misery." He let a reproving gaze linger on Sam, who shuffled a little from foot to foot and looked away under the penetrating gaze.

He directed his next words to both of them, "We're all still kickin'. No deals hangin' over our heads. I'd say that's reason enough," he finished dryly. Bobby still couldn't bear to think of those long months when Dean had been dead and Sam had been just as lost to him. The bottle was a cold comfort in such lonely times. He was thankful to have his boys back and he wouldn't apologize for it. If that wasn't cause to celebrate, well, then he didn't know what was.

Sam mulled that over, chewing pensively on one thumb. Maybe Bobby had a point. He and Dean had come to a tentative peace on the issue of Ruby, once Sam had explained to his brother how she'd saved his life while Dean was gone. Dean had even gone so far as to thank her, albeit in his own roundabout let's-never-mention-this-again kinda way. For his part, Sam knew it was a relief to his brother that he wasn't using his powers anymore, except for in emergencies like with Samhain and Alastair, and Dean had even opened up to him a little about Hell. He wished he'd been able to offer more comfort, but Dean wasn't willing to accept anything he saw as absolution for what he'd done, so the most Sam could do was listen when his brother needed to talk and let Dean know that he didn't blame him for what he'd had to do to survive their time apart.

He thought of those long months without his brother, and that clinched it. It was easy to lose sight of with the impending Apocalypse, the struggle to know who were allies and who were enemies in the cosmic battle they were facing, and the tension that had crept into the brothers' relationship, but they really were lucky. They were together, and they would stay that way. Nothing else mattered. No one would take Dean away from him again, Sam would make sure of it. He nodded firmly at Bobby and turned to his brother. "He's right, Dean. Think of the alternative, man. This Thanksgiving could've been a lot worse. You could be in Hell. I could be—"

"—with Ruby," Dean snickered, not able to resist the jab. He may be grateful to her for saving Sammy's life, but no way he was jumping on the Ruby Fan Club bandwagon his brother was driving.

"Funny," Sam flashed him the look that clearly said _Yeah, you're hilarious, I'm laughing on the inside._ "I'm just sayin', maybe Bobby's right. Maybe, despite everything, we _do_ have a lot to be thankful for." His hazel eyes were earnest now and a little bit emo, just like the old Sammy, not the hardened hunter Sam had been proving himself to be lately. That glimpse—_Sammy's still in there somewhere_—was enough to bolster Dean's spirits more than all the words that had been said.

"Course I'm right," Bobby huffed, as if that was a foregone conclusion. "Now Sam, you c'mon and help me. Table's not gonna set itself. And Dean, you just sit there and…" he cast around for something Dean could do without moving his arm or getting himself into trouble, "…and try not to be such an idjit," he finished with exasperated affection. The look he gave Dean was stern, reminding him that Bobby had given him strict orders to _sit_ and _stay. _Dean wondered if the older man had somehow confused him with Rumsfeld. Still, it did feel nice to just lean back in the chair and rest his aching body, so he decided to go along with it. Just this once.

But that didn't stop him from trying to milk the situation. "Hey, I'm hurt here," he schooled his features in an expression of wounded pathos, as if to ask if Bobby was really the kind of man to kick a guy while he was down.

Apparently he was, because Bobby just glanced at Dean dolefully, not showing the slightest hint of remorse. He raised one eyebrow meaningfully. "Not as hurt as you're gonna be you get outta that chair," he threatened, before turning to go into the kitchen.

Sam crossed the room to follow him but turned back to shoot Dean a superior smirk that reminded him of the days when his little brother used to taunt him openly. He could almost hear a five-year-old Sammy's _nana nana boo boo_ float across the room. Dean just rolled his eyes in response and only barely kept himself from sticking out his tongue when Sam chuckled at his predicament.

"Sam!" Bobby hollered from the kitchen. "Stop baitin' your brother and shake a leg, boy. I ain't got all day!"

Sam grimaced and hustled into the kitchen to the sound of Dean's laughter. It was the first laugh he'd heard from his big brother since the confession he'd made to Sam by the side of the road. Yeah, Bobby was right. They definitely needed this.

Dinner passed in a blur of talking and laughter, quiet moments and gentle teasing and funny stories of Bobby's exploits in the Dominican, where his battered trucker's cap was _not _appreciated for the essential fashion accessory it was. Dean allowed himself to be soothed by the easy peace that fell over the table, allowed his thoughts to turn from _Hell_ and _torture_ and _broken seals_ to _food_ and _family_ and _comfort_ and _home_.

He also couldn't help but be impressed by the spread Bobby had prepared. None of it was fancy—much of it from a box or can—but most of the traditional dishes were there. There was turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, rolls, and best of all—three kinds of pie. Dean smirked when Sam and Bobby brought out the pies. The older hunter definitely had his priorities straight.

When the boys looked at him wonderingly, Bobby just brushed it off gruffly with a mumbled comment about Widow Tweed bringing some stuff by as a thank you for rebuilding her transmission. But there was a hint of blush on his cheeks that neither boy missed. Dean smiled to himself. Yep, Bobby was just a big ol' softie at heart. Though Dean would never be foolish enough to tell him that to his face, since he had no desire to get blasted full of buckshot.

Dean raised an eyebrow when he got a closer look at the dessert offerings and exchanged a significant look with Sam, who just shrugged, as bewildered as he was. How had Bobby remembered their favorite kinds of pie? Dean hadn't even realized Bobby had known what they were. But sure enough, there was pumpkin pie for Dean, pecan pie for Sam, and pistachio pie, which was Bobby's personal favorite. All homemade, from the looks of it.

Seeing their identical expressions of surprised awe, Bobby thought every minute he'd spent on that blasted transmission had been worth it. He still fidgeted under all the attention though, finally clearing his throat and shrugging defensively, "What? You can never have too much pie."

Dean beamed at this, giving Sam a look as if to say, _See? What've I been telling you all these years?_ Sam just rolled his eyes fondly at his brother's obvious delight, but made sure to cut him a generous slice of each pie when it made its rounds. It was definitely some of the best pie Dean had ever tasted.

As he sat back and patted his full belly, Dean listened to Bobby and Sam bickering good-naturedly about some point of arcane mythology. He sighed contentedly and basked in the warmth of just being with his family, letting the conversation flow over and around him. Sure, the Apocalypse was coming. And they still didn't know what plans Heaven or Hell had for them. But they were alive, together. He guessed there _was _something to be thankful for, after all.

************************************************************

_Several people have asked if I intend to re-visit this story in Season 5. It depends. I'm marking it as complete for now, but my plan has always been to come back and finish out the series. I hope to do another chapter or two, depending on where things stand on the show next season. If there's a way to do a Season 5 Thanksgiving that is uplifting and hopeful and contains brotherly moments, I definitely will do so. But I want this series to have a happy ending, so if things are in a place with canon where that's not possible, I won't do a Season 5 chapter. I'm also considering doing a post-series chapter, for the Thanksgiving that takes place right after the Season 5 finale—again, depending on how the show ends things. I may go even go back at some point and fill in a couple of the Thanksgivings that were skipped initially, because I still have tons of ideas (told ya I was dangerous with a theme! LOL). Anyway, thank you again for the interest, and I hope that if I do end up doing additional chapters, I'll see you all back here then!_

_By the way, if you picked up on the literary allusion in chapter 15 or the movie reference in this chapter, and the significance of either, let me know and I'll give you a shout-out in the next chapter of my new story. It's an action/adventure, hurt/comfort fic called "The Soul Collector" and I've been working on it for a really long time. The first chapter is up now. Hope you'll come over and check it out. I'd love to hear what you think!  
_


End file.
